


To the Edge of Night

by thor20



Series: Nor Bid The Stars Farewell [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comic Book Science, Crossover, Gen, Infinity Gauntlet, Infinity Gems, Marvel 616 References, POV Multiple, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Slow Burn Thor/Bruce, if you know a lot of lord of the rings trivia, it's tough to explain, lord of the rings exists in-universe, may rewrite soon, this bitch empty - yeet: infinity stone edition, you're in for a treat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 82,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thor20/pseuds/thor20
Summary: Darkness creeps back into the forests of the world... rumor grows of a shadow in the East. And a simple golden ring is glowing in Kamar-Taj...Watch your backs, Avengers.Sauron is coming.When Thanos snapped his fingers, something ancient and terrible awakened within the gauntlet, sensing its time had now come. With the Infinity Stones nowhere to be found, half of all life in the universe gone, and the Avengers scattered, the universe's salvation now lies in a simple golden ring.The survivors of the Snap must now come together over this mysterious artifact, and unravel millennia of lies and deceit. Somehow they will have to restore the universe's natural balance. They will unite, or they will fall.





	1. Call Back

**Author's Note:**

> [Come yell with/at me on my Tumblr.](http://www.thor-20.tumblr.com)

_You have nine new voicemail messages._

_..._

_"Hey, it's Nat. How's everything? I know house arrest is a pain in the ass, but I hope it's going well. Um. How are Laura and the kids? We're in... you know. Where we've always been. They'll let your call through if you want to call me back. Can't wait to hear from you. Sam says hi. G'bye."_

_..._

_"It's Nat again. Have you been watching the news? Call me back."_

...

" _Yo, it's Sam. I know you've got a lot on your plate right now, but we got a giant fucking metal donut in the sky over New York, and we're in fucking... Scotland. Yeah. Some backup would be nice."_

_..._

_"Clint, I know you're on house arrest, technically, but I'd really appreciate it if you came out... oh... what?... right - uh. Yeah. I know you have a really bad track record with following me into battle on random occasions, but if you could give Stark some backup in New York that'd be -"_

_..._

_"Hey, uhhh, it's Scott? Have you taken a look at the news? I know we're technically not allowed out, but do you think this is worth looking into? Uh - bye. Talk later?"_

_..._

_"It's Nat. I know it's family movie night and all, but - dammit. We're back in Wakanda. You probably don't want to hear this, but Stark was right the whole time. Thanos has been gearing up to attack Earth for six years - the Chitauri were just the beginning. I - shit. Call you back."_

...

" _Sam here. Fucking shit on a popsicle stick, Clint, we're getting fucked hard out here. If you're getting this, I need you to - shit, gotta go. Get to Wakanda when you get the chance!"_

_..._

_"Clint,_ please. _"_

_..._

_"Clint, it's Natasha, I am begging you to please pick up the fucking phone. Thanos just... he killed half the people in the universe with one snap of his fingers. He won. I need to know..._

_"I need to know if you're still alive. Please. Please, please, если ты мертв, я никогда не прощу себя -"_

 

He hung up. Natasha's voice - muffled; she must have been hiding somewhere - cut off.

Clint sat there and stared at the phone in his hand for an eternity. Dust clung to its edges, and he gently buffed the phone on his pants. He had never heard Nat sound so panicked, so afraid, and the other voicemails had hardly been better. Steve. Sam. Hell, even Wanda.

He took a breath. Held it.

Part of him was mad that he couldn't make it to Wakanda, that he couldn't be with his team while whatever the fuck that was went down. House arrest was good for him, though - he got to spend time with his family. That strained hamstring from Berlin had finally healed. He'd learned to knit. He and his family had finally finished watching all the Pixar films they could find - they'd just watched _Inside Out_ last night, in fact.

He let the breath out. But it was definitely time to come out of retirement.

Clint stood up from the couch, ignoring the sudden urge he felt to sneeze, and picked up his bow from the coffee table. One twist, and it collapsed. He clipped it to his belt, fiddled with his phone, and made a call as he strode out.

"Nat?"

_"Clint! Thank God - I thought you'd... Is everything okay?"_

The dust of his family's bodies swirled above the living room furniture.

"...No."

He'd fallen asleep during the movie.

"But it will be."

They were there when he closed his eyes.

_"Clint -"_

They were dust when he opened them.

"I'm coming to Wakanda, Nat."

He clicked his fingers, and Lucky trotted out from under the stairs, tail tucked between his legs.

_"Clint, I can hear it in your voice. What happened?"_

The porch door swung closed; he gently locked it, hand lingering on the doorknob. "I... I lost them."

There was silence on the other end. Not even a breath. _"All of them?"_ Natasha said softly.

"Yeah."

All of them.

_"I'm sorry."_

_I am too._ Clint's grip tightened on the phone; at his feet, Lucky whimpered, his nose brushing Clint's knee. "Just get me to Wakanda as soon as possible," he said curtly.

_"Already done. There's a jet flying to your location right now, should be there soon."_

It wouldn't be long, then. Clint sat down on the porch steps, and Lucky sat behind him, his big wet nose prodding into Clint's armpit. He took another deep breath and let it out, squeezing his eyes until constellations roiled under his eyelids.

He felt like a guardsman keeping watch at a tomb.

Clint choked and let his head drop into his hands.

_"Clint?"_

He hung up.

Insects buzzed, the breeze blew, and Clint let himself break down and cry.

* * *

 

His footsteps echoed.

Wong paced slowly around the empty pedestal; the curved holder for the Eye of Agamotto sat empty, and the doors to each of the sanctums stayed firmly shut. It was empty. Desolate.

Perhaps it was folly to think it, but Wong entertained the thought anyway. Maybe things could have been different if he had found a way to go with Strange. Then again, maybe not. What could he have done against that moldy grape of a Titan? Maybe he could have rallied the remaining sorcerers at Kamar-taj, taken them to Wakanda. Could that have helped?

Clouds of dust rose around his feet. Wong cringed and came to a halt. It was just their luck that the Sanctum was hit the hardest by the finger snap. He was the only one here left alive.

Wong tried not to let bitterness overtake him. He could almost sense the exact moment when Stephen handed over the Time Stone. Broke his vows. Bastard. He scowled at the empty pedestal once more. He better have had a damn good reason for giving up the Stone, because thanks to him...

Dust swirled.

"Damn it," Wong muttered. There was a draft somewhere. While they had WiFi here - they weren't uncivilized - the insulation of the Sanctum was not the best. Nights were cold. The pad of his thumb traced the underside of his sling ring; he'd patch the hole as best he could, and maybe retreat to the library. The people of Kathmandu might need his assistance; they'd turned to the Sanctum in times past, and after a tragedy like today, they would need someone to explain what had happened.

Wong sighed. He was a librarian, damn it. Not a therapist. That was Stephen's job. Or... something. He could never quite remember what kind of doctorates the Sorcerer Supreme had. Sometimes he guessed at random; Stephen thought he was pulling his leg the time Wong called him a paleontologist, but he seriously couldn't recall -

He froze.

Something was glowing.

Wong backtracked and turned a corner into the Ancient One's former private rooms. "Oh, no," he breathed. "Ohhhh, hell no."

The panel above the Ancient One's bed had slid open - and the inside was glowing bright enough to make Wong squint.

"Shit."

Wong stumbled forward, brushing aside the protective wards like cobwebs, and gingerly approached the secret compartment. When he'd first become Librarian, the Ancient One told him of this ring - an artifact of great and terrible power, so awful that she trusted none but herself to keep watch over it. Wong was, of course, confused as to why she was telling him about the ring if she was the only one keeping an eye on it. And he said so.

She just _looked_ at him. "Wong," she had said, "being the librarian of Kamar-Taj means you must be privy to all sorts of knowledge. Your predecessor knew of this; and now so shall you."

"With all due respect, ma'am," Wong had said skeptically, "no man is meant to know everything."

The Ancient One's knowing smile had become sad, and she said, "I am no man."

It seemed like an inside joke, because that made no fucking sense to Wong - but he went along with it anyway. The Ancient One told him very little about the ring itself; she only said enough for him to know that he was just a contingency plan. Should anything happen to her, he was to tell the next Sorcerer Supreme about the ring, and they too would protect it.

Well. Stephen was stuck in the ass end of nowhere, as far as Wong was concerned. And everyone else was dead.

It fell to him. Great.

Wong gave the ring a suspicious once-over. He really hoped that Stephen would get his sorry ass back here soon. First so Wong could chew him out about the Time Stone. Then so he could give him this ridiculous ring. It should never have come to him in the first place -

There was a sharp tug behind his navel, and Wong yelped as the world dissolved.

The Ancient One could’ve at least told him that _this_ would happen.

Sometimes he hated his job.

* * *

 

The water suddenly began to churn around his ankles. Before him, the green-skinned child lifted her chin and turned away, gliding across the surface -

_You cannot hide._

The words slammed deep into his chest, into his heart, and he slowly turned, as the orange sky rippled with smoke, with shadow.

_I see you…_

A great lidless eye, wreathed in flame, rose high above the water. A nameless fear curdled in his stomach. It looked straight into him, and -

_Thanos!_

And the fire consumed him.


	2. No Other Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor once held three things as absolute truths.
> 
> One: No matter what, family came first. Two: It was his duty to protect Asgard and its people.
> 
> Three: His grandfather’s mistakes were a thing of the past.
> 
> In the past day, all of those had quickly become irrelevant. No family, no Asgard, no people - and judging from the way things were looking, his grandfather’s ego-fueled mistake might be the one thing that saved all their asses.

Thor once held three things as absolute truths.

One: No matter what, family came first. Two: It was his duty to protect Asgard and its people.

Three: His grandfather’s mistakes were a thing of the past.

In less than a week, all of those had quickly become irrelevant. He had no family left. The remaining Asgardians were scattered to the winds on escape pods or… or dead. And now…

“Thor? You alright?”

Thor cringed and sank to his knees. Now the third truth had become a lie.

Almost instantly, there was a flurry of sound around him. Thanos had been gone for nearly half an hour, but they still stood in the clearing - gathering themselves, searching for their comrades. He’d seen Steve Rogers tearfully shoveling handfuls of dust into a Ziploc bag. Natasha had made a brief call to someone, then sat in silence with her back propped against a tree stump. Rhodes had stopped searching for his friend Sam.

But now -

“Hey! Thor, what’s going on?” “Fuck, not him too -” “Thor, talk to us -”

He heard Banner screaming his name in the distance -

Nothing registered, except for the feeling of something twisting around his heart - which could only mean one thing.

Someone had found the ring.

_My son. Should it ever be found -_

His hand stretched out, reaching blindly. Not understanding, Steve hesitantly grabbed it, but Thor jerked away. His eyes fluttered shut.

He could _feel_ it -

_It and the one who holds it shall come to you._

“What’s that?” said Colonel Rhodes’ voice, sharp and thin with pain.

The air seemed to ripple, a faint roar of wind coursing through the Wakandan jungle. Thor’s fingers grasped thin air and _pulled_ -

The jungle exploded with light, and a man rocketed through the trees. He landed in front of Thor in a groaning heap of limbs and cloth. Immediately, the others were on guard - weary, but alert. Natasha’s stun batons were out and pointed at the strange man; Rocket aimed his machine gun at him, and Steve scrambled to his feet, wearily holding up his fists.

The man took a deep, shaky breath and rolled onto his back. Upside down, his eyes met Thor’s. “Oh, it’s you,” he groaned. “I should have known.”

“Do I know you?” Thor said blankly.

“I doubt it,” the man said, sitting up. “Ooh. That hurts. Okay. My name’s Wong - I’m a friend of Stephen Strange.”

Thor’s eyebrows shot up. “The sorcerer?” he asked. He remembered the man, from when he was on Midgard last, looking for his father. Odd man. Mostly cheekbones. Had a very rude cloak. “Right, yeah. Strange. Where is he?”

“He was captured,” Wong said heavily. “By one of Thanos’s lackeys. Took Stark and the spider-kid with him. I don’t know where they are now, but -”

“Wong?”

Bruce’s voice interrupted them; they turned to see him stumbling through the undergrowth, beaten and bruised from his time in the Hulkbuster - but he was alive. “Wong, what are you doing here?” he exclaimed. “I thought you were still in the New York sanctum -!”

“The Sanctums are gone,” Wong said grimly. “Everyone is dead except me.” Thor and Bruce winced. They were the only ones there who understood the significance of that; nobody else was even aware of the _existence_ of the Sanctums -

Wong opened his hand; in the center gleamed a simple golden band. Thor froze. “I was entrusted by the Ancient One, the former Sorcerer Supreme, to keep an eye on this,” Wong said seriously. “Apparently, ‘keeping an eye’ on it means getting yanked into…”

He glanced around. “Where are we?”

“Wakanda,” Steve supplied helpfully.

Wong made a face. “Wonderful. Jungle. Just great," he muttered. "I forgot my bug repellent."

“Isn’t there a spell for that?”

The ring shimmered in the shadow of Wong’s palm.

“It’s too much work.”

Thor reached out -

Bruce offered, “I have some Off back at the palace if you need it -”

Wong closed his hand and snatched the ring away. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said suspiciously to Thor.

Thor scowled. “That ring,” he nearly snarled, “belonged to my grandfather. It’s an Asgardian weapon, and - look, can you just give it to me?”

“Why?” Wong said blandly. “The Ancient One specifically told me to keep it away from Asgardians.” Thor frowned. “Why should I listen to you?”

“Because -”

“This is a freakin’ fascinating discussion -”

Rocket interrupted the conversation, walking towards them with his gun braced against his shoulder. “But unless that ring can help us stop Thanos -”

“It can.”

Thor spoke before he realized he’d opened his mouth. He swallowed and focused on Wong. The man was still sitting on the ground, staring skeptically at the ring, as if he couldn’t believe he was holding their salvation in the palm of his hand. “Wong,” Thor said seriously.

Wong looked up, one eyebrow raised.

Thor put every bit of sincerity that he could into his voice. “Tell us everything your order knows about the ring,” he demanded, his voice shaking slightly. “And if there were any notes on it in your Sanctum, bring them to us here.” He added, “Please.”

After a tense silence, Wong nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll do my best,” he confirmed, raising his hands to open a portal. A dusty library lay beyond the sizzling circle of light.

Just before he stepped through, Thor cleared his throat. “Uh - about the ring?” he said. “Can I have it back?”

Wong snorted and stepped through. “Not on my watch,” he said derisively. “The Ancient One wanted this ring out of your people’s hands for a reason. I’ll be back.”

“No, come on -!”

Wong shrugged and quickly closed the portal.

They all fell silent, staring at the thin air where the portal had been. Steve took a deep breath. “It looks like we’re on our own for now,” he said heavily. “Until Tony and the others get back from space.”

“If they survived,” Rocket said bleakly. “Man, Gamora’s gonna be _pissed_ at me, when she finds out about… about -”

His ears drooped. Thor tentatively placed a reassuring hand on Rocket’s head, and the rabbit’s knees buckled. “Sorry,” he said hurriedly, removing it.

“Don’t mention it.”

“So, Thor,” Bruce interjected.

Thor looked at his friend. He leaned against a tree for support, one arm braced across his stomach. At Thor’s questioning look, he waved a dismissive hand. “What exactly is that ring Wong had?” he said. “LIke, what was it used for?”

Thor thought back. Memories darted past, so old they were almost out of reach. His father, telling them stories of the Celestial Wars - then a millennium later, grizzled with age, telling him of the Ring and what it was used for -

_The Midgardians cannot know the truth!_

Scowling, Thor shoved his father’s voice away. “It was a weapon,” he announced to the clearing. “My grandfather Bor laid claim to it a few millennia ago, and used it to conquer the Nine Realms -”

“So, like the One Ring to Rule Them All?” Rhodes interjected skeptically. Bruce almost snickered.

Thor heard the capital letters in Rhodes’ words and cringed. Another one of his father’s deceptions. It had lasted longer than any of them had realized. “Something like that,” he said feebly. “It -”

Damn it. This would take too long to explain. He sighed heavily. “We should find a better place to speak of this,” he said to the others. “Lead the way. I don’t know where the hell I am.”

* * *

 

There were hands on his body.

“Damn it, how does this thing come off... Hey. Hey!”

 _Slap_! His head lolled to one side.

“Stay with me, you useless hunk of metal,” the voice snarled. “I need to get this thing off of you. How does it work?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The air of Titan seared his lungs.

“No, no, don’t even fucking _think_ about it!” His vision swam, and a bluish face swam into view. _Nebula,_ his brain supplied. “You’re bleeding out,” the woman said harshly, her eyes glittering with rage that hopefully wasn’t directed at him. “Your patch job was halfway decent, but it’s not holding. I need to get this suit off before you _die._ ”

One of her pupils expanded, and she glanced down his torso. “Yeah, you’re definitely bleeding,” she said tonelessly. “The glue isn't holding. What’s your name again?”

He blinked slowly, stared at the darkening golden sky. Deep in his chest, he felt a raw, torn edge where his name had been.

“ _Hey!_ ”

A hand slammed on his chest, on the _arc reactor -_

_cold, redwhiteblue_

**_STEVE_ **

_cold_ **_cold COLD_ ** _siberia_

_so was_

**_mr stark_ **

**_i_ **

_my name is TONY_

**_please_ **

_i don’t want_

_STARK_

_to_ **_go_ **

He gasped and grabbed Nebula’s wrist.

The cybernetic woman gave him a steely look. “Finally,” she muttered. “Now. Tell me your name, and tell me how this damn thing comes off, so I can shove your large intestine back inside your body.” She glanced at his torso again and said, almost nonchalantly, “Is that your large intestine? I don’t know much about Terran biology -”

“Tony.”

Her eyes locked on his.

“My name is Tony,” he gasped. Every word hurt like a lobster was pinching his balls. He tasted blood. “Is my large intestine really falling out? I -”

Something like mirth glimmered in Nebula’s eyes. Her voice was still deathly cold. “No. I just needed your attention.” She cleared her throat. “You really are bleeding out, though,” she said. “Get the suit off so I can clean it properly.”

Yeah. That was probably an issue. Wincing, Tony got the nanobots to withdraw, and they scuttled over his body, retreating into the arc reactor. Nebula watched them go with a blank face. Tony had no idea if she was impressed. He didn’t care.

He looked down at his torso and cringed. The adhesive over his stab wound had already started to pull away from the edges, and blood was seeping out. “You got anything for this?” he asked Nebula.

She cocked her head and looked at him, a calculating gleam in her eye. It reminded him of Vision, almost - he would have that same look when he was thinking -

_No._

He couldn’t do that. No, he couldn’t let his mind go there. Everyone was dust. That meant Thanos got the stones; that meant Vision was toast. Just like -

Like -

_I don’t feel so good -_

_There was no other way -_

“Stop that!”

Nebula’s fist slammed into his shoulder. Tony winced and fought back the urge to scream. He’d jammed it something fierce, blocking Thanos’s last hit. “We don’t have time to get distracted,” she said harshly. “Get the suit off, so I can disinfect your wound and patch it.”

“I - no, it’s fine, I got this,” Tony grunted, sitting up.

“It doesn’t look like you ‘got this,’” Nebula said derisively.

And that was _it._ Something like rage bubbled in Tony’s throat. She put a hand on his shoulder to shove him  back down, but he batted it away. “I’ve had worse,” he said, glaring at the cybernetic woman. “I’ve had my chest carved open without drugs in a cave. I’ve had a glorified Energizer battery stuck between my ribs for most of a decade. A scratch like this -” He gestured angrily at his wound and snarled, “It’s not a fucking _problem._ ”

Nebula stared at him again. No blinking. Jesus Christ. “Okay, you’ve got to stop doing that,” Tony said. “It’s kind of creeping me out.”

“Tough luck,” Nebula muttered. She unzipped one of her pockets and threw a first-aid kit at him. Tony caught it and tore it open, searching for some basic antiseptics. None of it was in a language he could understand -

“Red packets are antibiotics.”

“Right. Knew that. Thanks, Smurfette.” Nebula rolled her eyes and stood up. Tony ripped the packet open and squirted some kind of clear gel onto the edges of his cut. It stung like a _bitch._ Some things were universal, he guessed.

He called up the nanobots again to add another layer of adhesive spray. He watched the glue methodically layer itself over his wound again, shooting from the applicator on his wrist. Like the webs from Peter’s web-shooters.

 _Don’t_ . _Don’t go there._

_Oh, man._

Quill’s last words echoed through his head, and Tony gritted his teeth. God, he couldn’t stand that man’s voice. Still. A part of him respected Quill - liked him, even. Though losing his cool at Thanos, _right_ when they’d almost gotten the gauntlet off, was a dick move -

_Don’t bullshit me, Rogers, did you know?_

Tony sighed. Yeah.

He was a hypocrite.

Fucking Christ on a crutch.

“Tony.”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

Nebula knelt some distance away, near a large pile of dust. Her fingers were sifting through it, as if searching for something. “Can you stand?” she said, her mechanical voice hoarse and sharp.

“Working on it.”

His legs were stiff and sore, but he managed. Tony briefly considered summoning the suit again, forming it around his legs to help him walk. “What’s up, Smurfette?” he called to Nebula.

She glanced over her shoulder. “My name is _Nebula,_ ” she hissed.

“Jeez, sorry,” Tony said defensively. “So what is it?”

The woman’s fingers closed around something in the dust, and she lifted it towards him. His breath caught somewhere between his heart and his mouth. “How well did you know the wizard?” she said curtly.

She was holding Strange’s weird ring.

_How?_

“My God,” Tony breathed, snatching it from her metal fingers. Everything Strange had been wearing had vanished with him - did he let go of it just before he died? Was this his plan? Its carvings were crusted with dust - with _Strange,_ he realized with a nauseous lurch - and he took a breath so deep it strained his ribs. He could see the man now: thrown into elegant shadow inside the alien ship, eyes cruel and sharp as the lines of his face. “ _I would not hesitate to sacrifice you to keep the stone safe.”_ His head twitching and mouth blurring as he meditated, the Time Stone glowing around his neck -

_Tony…_

He must be getting melodramatic in his old age, if he thought he heard Stephen’s voice in Titan’s howling wind.

When the hell did he become Stephen?

Too late - he was dust now, too damn dead to hear him.

_How well did you know the wizard?_

“Not well enough,” he croaked.

Nebula’s lip curled slightly. “Pity.” She stood up and dusted off her knees. “I can access my memory banks to find footage of him.”

After a split second of thought, Tony saw where she was going. He started to shake his head. “No. No, no, no you can’t be serious,” he stammered. He held up the ring and said, “I don’t know jack shit about using it -”

“Neither do I, but you’re the best option we have,” Nebula snapped. “I don’t know how it will react with my cybernetics. It’s a Terran artifact; you’re a Terran. Use it to open a portal to Terra.”

“It’s not that simple!” Tony spluttered.

“Well, it looks like it is,” said Nebula defensively. Her eye whirred and _glowed,_ and a hologram of Stephen appeared between them. Tony felt another pang in his chest, looking at the Sorcerer Supreme. The hologram zoomed in on the hand without the ring.

“Copy that. Then do that.” The view switched to Stephen’s other hand. Nebula’s eyes glittered as she looked at him again. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” she said - was that a smirk? “You built that nanobot tech yourself. You can figure it out. You’re not too shabby, for a Terran.”

Tony raised an eyebrow and slid the ring back on. “Is that supposed to be an insult?” he snorted.

Between them, the slow-motion hologram of Stephen opened a portal. “My only long-term experience with lifeforms from your backwater boondocks planet has been Quill,” she said.

“Ouch. My condolences.”

“Unnecessary, but accepted.” The hologram shut off, and Nebula looked into his eyes again. “Stay here,” she said tonelessly. “Best of luck. I’m going to find the _Benatar_.”

“The what, now?” Tony said.

“Quill’s ship. If it’s not completely trashed, we might be able to use it,” Nebula said.

Tony glanced at the sling ring. Was it on the wrong fingers? He wasn’t sure. “Then why the hell do I need to learn to use this?” he said, wiggling his fingers.

Nebula’s eyes glittered, though her face remained expressionless. “Who said it wasn’t part of the plan?” was all she said, before she turned and stalked off through the crashed ships.

Tony’s mouth opened and closed, fishlike, for a few seconds. Fucking space people and their fucking spacey plans. _Nobody tells me anything,_ he thought, adjusting the ring on his fingers. This was _weird._ “Okay, Stranger Things,” he muttered to empty air. “If you’re watching this, please don’t laugh. You have every right to, but I’d rather you not. Okay. Okay, okay… start with the left hand…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now the Ring has been found, Tony is trying to be a wizard, and Thor is coming to terms with yet another mistake his father made. Hope this went well. I tried to make Thor's dialogue more realistic - one of my biggest pet peeves is people ignoring the way he speaks in recent movies, writing him with "thees" and "thous" when he's been documented as speaking like a normal Earth person (see: Thor: Ragnarok). Ugh. Kind of annoying.
> 
> Anyway, tell me what you guys think. Kudos are great. Reviews are life. I want to know that I'm not just stumbling blindfolded through a minefield here. Thanks, y'all.
> 
> Update 5.28.18: This fic is now cross-posted on fanfiction.net, under the same username and title. Man, I hate ffnet's formatting, I had to go back and double-space between each paragraph, and re-italicize and bold everything, and it doesn't keep my Stylistically-Chosen Indents. Eeesh. Anyway. It's up there now. Thanks again.


	3. No Place To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had barely been an hour, but Okoye’s words to her still pounded in her skull. “Your brother… I’m sorry. He was lost.”  
> Not killed, not defeated. Lost. Even now, looking back, Shuri felt something rising in her - all sharp and choking, panic wrapped around her throat. Like the monster in the garbage compactor, she thought hysterically. From A New Hope. Hell.

For some reason - and he honest-to-God didn’t notice until he got onto the jet and sat down on it - there was a dog biscuit in his back pocket.

Clint felt the sharp edges and winced, squirming in his seat to fish it out. The biscuit had broken into two severe halves. Lucky squirmed against his seatbelt in the seat next to him, slobbering all over the upholstery. He let out a truly pathetic whine, his tongue lolling out, and Clint sighed. “You’re making a fool of yourself, come on,” he said sternly.

Lucky whined again.

“I’ll eat the biscuit myself if you keep that up.”

Lucky switched tactics and gave him the saddest pair of wide puppy-dog eyes he could.

Clint blinked. “You’re pathetic,” he drawled. “Fine. Here.”

Clint tossed him half the biscuit. It bounced off Lucky’s nose and into the air; with a truly hilarious expression of canine panic, Lucky snatched it just before it hit the ground. He munched on it proudly, sending crumbs everywhere. Clint smiled slightly and rubbed Lucky’s head until his ears flopped. Good boy. Very good boy. Catlike reflexes, his ass.

“Mr. Barton, are you ready for takeoff?”

His hand stilled. “Yeah, ready,” he called, settling back into his seat. He took another deep breath, feeling the stretch in his ribs.

Hell.

He’d almost forgotten why he was on the fucking jet in the first place.

True to her word, the fancy-ass Wakandan jet that Natasha had promised landed on his front lawn a few hours after her call. Those things were _fast_ . Some remote part of Clint’s brain was wildly protesting their departure - he couldn’t leave, not now, he didn’t have time to fucking _mourn,_ dammit -

But the moment the jet’s door opened, Lucky ran up and leapt in, sniffing around for Wakandan doggie treats. Traitor. Clint and the pilot had exchanged long-suffering looks. The moment didn’t last, though, and Clint had to haul his sorry ass and his daybag onto a jet that would’ve given him wet dreams six years ago.

Now it was just -

It was -

He didn’t even know.

Fuck’s sake.

“We’re taking off now, Mr. Barton,” came the pilot’s voice over the intercom.

And they did, so smoothly that Clint barely noticed it; the jet accelerated quickly, and it was like a hand pushing him gently into his seat. There was hardly any sound; the vibranium hull absorbed most of the noise. Lucky went stiff in his seat, eyes rolling frantically in his head, as they truly left the earth behind. Clint scratched him reassuringly behind his ears. His own chest felt hollow.

He’d promised Laura that he wouldn’t leave again, after they got broken out of the Raft. After the pardons, after the media firestorm. He’d gotten on the first flight back to Iowa and found Laura on the front porch, holding one-year-old Nathaniel on her hip. Without caring who saw him, he nearly fell to his knees in front of her and _promised._ He wouldn’t leave. He’d ignore any and all calls. God, he didn’t want to miss anything, not ever again.

And Laura. Sweet, forgiving Laura. She’d pulled him to his feet and hugged him, whispering _thank you_ in his ear.

That was all they said about it.

And look at him now. Close your eyes for a few hours, and suddenly your entire life is dust.

Goddamn.

His hands splayed wide, made fists. They were starting to shake. Fuck’s sake, he needed something to distract himself. He pulled out his phone and idly scrolled through the news notifications. _“DUSTING” CLAIMS BILLIONS,_ the headlines screamed. Twitter alone was a hornet’s nest of trending usernames and tribute posts. Each name was a timebomb - either the person was dead or not, and the anticipation hurt like a punctured lung.

He bit the bullet and opened Twitter. His breath left him in a pained wheeze.

_Save me a seat at the party, Harrison. With Carrie there too, it better be a blast. - @HamillHimself_

Ian McKellen was trending. Apparently, he had dissolved onstage while playing Claudius in a production of Hamlet. There were pictures of him crumbling to dust; the young actor playing Hamlet was frozen behind him, horrified, and McKellen was kneeling in the spotlight with his eyes closed. The dust of his body swirled in the lights behind him, a great glowing cloud.

 _Goodbye, JK._ There was art of Rowling, surrounded by the characters she’d killed off in her books. _Thank you for my childhood._

_Weinstein dusted in his house… good riddance. Guess justice was finally served._

_No spoonfuls of sugar to help us swallow this terrible loss. We miss you already, Julie Andrews. You’ll always keep singing in our hearts._

_Death doesn’t discriminate. Farewell, Lin. See you on the other side. - @leslieodomjr_

He could take it anymore. _Death doesn’t -_ “Death doesn’t discriminate,” he whispered. “Fuck.” Damn right, it didn’t - it was a fifty-fifty chance, life or death. Two sides of the same coin. While he was distracted, Lucky’s slimy tongue wormed into the hand holding the rest of the biscuit. Clint let him have it.

_It takes, and it takes._

God-fucking _fuck -_

His phone suddenly buzzed. There was a call from Natasha. He answered swiftly and lifted the phone; it was already hot, like a branding iron, searing the names of the fallen into his memory. “Yeah?”

Natasha’s voice washed over him, curt and business-like. _“Clint, there’s been a development. Thor came back, and accidentally -_ ” There was some muttering. “ _Sorry, totally-on-purpose summoned a lost Asgardian artifact that might be able to stop Thanos.”_

The words took a while to sink in. “Are you kidding me?” Clint finally exploded. “Where the fuck was that when we needed it?”

Natasha scoffed bitterly. “ _On Earth, apparently,”_ she said. Clint made an exasperated sound that was barely human. Of _course,_ every single fucking artifact that the universe was interested in was on fucking _Earth._

 _“We’re going to have a meeting about it,”_ Natasha went on. Her voice was dry enough to tell Clint that she felt the same way about… whatever the thing was. “ _Thor and one of the sorcerers from Kamar-Taj are going to compare notes and tell us about it.”_

“Yeah - what exactly is it?”

Natasha was silent. “ _You’re not going to believe this,”_ she said, almost snickering. “ _It’s a_ ring. _A fucking gold ring._ ”

“Jesus Christ, you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“Ooh, spooky,” Clint said, wiggling his fingers mysteriously, even though Natasha couldn’t see it. Lucky watched his hand move. He recited, in a fake spooky voice, “‘One ring to rule them all, one ring _-_ ”

“ _Ah, shut up,”_ Natasha said fondly. It felt like she was sitting in the chair next to him, affectionately shoving him in the shoulder. Some gaping hole in his chest seemed to fill. God, he’d missed her.

 _“So - the meeting’s about to start,”_ she suddenly said. _“I’ll put you on speaker so you can listen in, if that’s alright.”_

“Yeah - yeah, that’s perfect,” Clint agreed, shifting in his seat. “Uh - Nat.”

“ _Yes?”_

He was quiet for a while, trying to search for words. Lucky’s nose prodded his hand. “Thanks,” was all he could manage to say.

Natasha knew what he meant, as always. _“No problem,”_ she said quietly. “ _It’ll be nice to have you here._ ” Clint almost smiled - just the corner of his mouth twitching up, nothing more. _“Okay - we’re about to start._ ”

She fell silent, and he heard a door grind open in the background. There was a soft wash of voices, and his ears automatically began to sort through each one. Thor’s baritone - now soft and subdued, an undercurrent of terrible sorrow running beneath it. Rhodey’s sharp Colonel’s voice in full force. Some unfamiliar brash voice, a Frankenstein’s monster of Brooklyn-Boston-French drawls. Bruce, surprisingly; his soft voice blended with Thor’s. He let the voices wash over him in a tide of words, battering away at the stone in his heart.

He was a pragmatist, after all. He spent his time mourning, but - Laura wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want him to waste time on them, not while there’s a bigger bad guy to fight.

When they have to be avenged.

* * *

 

_This is no place to die._

The windows in the laboratory were shattered. Shuri shambled onto the destroyed balcony above Vision’s operating table; she braced her hands on the railing and stared at the rubble beneath. The operating table stood unbroken among shards of glass.

Shuri squeezed the railing. Her knuckles bled white.

Somehow her feet brought her down the stairs, across the shattered planes of the laboratory floor, to the flat slab of the operating table. She perched on its edge. Now, closer to the windows, the wind stole even the sound of her breath - nothing in her ears but its mournful howl. The gouges in the land left by Thanos’s weapons seemed to bleed, and the jungle -

_No place -_

Great clouds of dust hovered above the trees -

 _This is no place_ -

Shuri choked. She clenched her hands into fists, seeking the pain of her nails digging into her flesh.

_Oh, brother._

It had barely been an hour, but Okoye’s words to her still pounded in her skull. _“Your brother… I’m sorry. He was lost.”_ Not killed, not defeated. Lost. Even now, looking back, Shuri felt something rising in her - all sharp and choking, panic wrapped around her throat. _Like the monster in the garbage compactor_ , she thought hysterically. _From_ A New Hope. _Hell._

It hadn’t sunk in at the time. She had found it in herself to ask what her brother’s last words were.

Okoye had been silent, so silent, that Shuri wondered for one hysterical moment if she’d vanished too. Then she spoke. “ _This is no place to die,_ ” she whispered. “That was… what he told me. I am so sorry. Forgive me.” The call ended abruptly, and Shuri had - Shuri had _screamed._

The numb shock within her finally burst free, all claws and sharp teeth. The Dora Milaje near her - the ones that hadn’t crumbled into dust - surged forward to stop her, but she ignored them, driving her fists into the walls with a howl of grief. She’d sunk to her knees, sobbing; her bodyguards pressed close, their presence silent but soothing. The women had unconsciously joined hands. The combined force of their grief rippled through them all, in a litany of hands squeezed, shoulders leant on, tears freely shed. For they had just lost their _King_ -

And Shuri had just lost a brother.

Her wrist communicator vibrated softly, and she gritted her teeth. She opened her hand - an e-mail from -

Her eyebrows flew up. The United Nations was holding an emergency session? Why was she getting this? Usually her brother -

Oh.

Shuri swallowed and skimmed the e-mail, panic rising like bile in her throat. Words jumped out at her: _emergency session… worldwide catastrophe… following ambassadors were victims… substitutes will attend in their stead -_ She glanced at the list and looked at a few of the countries on the list. “Oh, yikes,” she said softly. Roughly half of them were gone, and some _heavy_ political hitters had taken serious damage. Germany. China. Bolivia, United States, Brazil, Canada. Russia. France. Ethiopia.

She bit back the urge to swear. So many of their earliest, tentative allies were gone. Now they’d have to play Diplomacy Bingo again - find their allies, see their stances…

She dismissed the message and put her head in her hands, nervously toying with her hair. Was she Queen now? Was she? Was - Her breath started coming faster, and she leaned forward, hands nearly tugging at her hair now. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she wasn’t _ready_ for this - technically she _wasn’t_ Queen yet (if at all), her claim hadn’t been challenged, she hadn’t faced the tribes, hadn’t eaten the heart-shaped herb - and what about her stepmother? _She_ was older, wouldn’t she have to take the throne instead -

_Bzzt._

Her wrist vibrated again. “What now,” she muttered, letting go of her hair, feeling her scalp sting. She opened her hand, and answered the call. She snapped, almost immediately regretting it, “ _What_?”

_“Your Majesty.”_

It was the Widow. Shuri pursed her lips and inclined her head, staring out the shattered windows at the jungle where she doubtlessly was. “My apologies,” she said tersely. “What is it?”

 _“We have a… situation,”_ the woman said softly. Tonelessly. Shuri could sense nothing in her voice, and her guard came up. _“Thor came back, as you might have noticed.”_

“Damn right,” Shuri huffed. “I could feel the thunder from here.”

Romanoff gave half a chuckle. _“Yes - well, some things came to light, and we found some kind of magical artifact that… that might be able to stop Thanos.”_

_What._

“Say that again,” Shuri said carefully.

_A weapon to stop Thanos._

_“There’s a ring, one the Sorcerers of Kamar-Taj have been keeping secret for centuries,”_ Romanoff explained. _“Thor accidentally summoned it and its guardian to Wakanda. We’re planning on holding a meeting to discuss it.”_ Romanoff paused, then said carefully, _“Would it be alright with your brother if we came to the palace and met?”_

It sounded almost too good to be true. So good that Shuri almost didn’t hear Romanoff’s slip-up. “Um.” She cleared her throat. “My brother was among the fallen.”

 _“I’m sorry,”_ came Natasha’s swift reply. _“I - I didn’t -”_

“It is quite alright,” Shuri said stiffly, the white woman’s apology grating on her nerves. It did not ring true in her chest. It was nothing like the Dora Milage gathered around her in grief, in solidarity. “Thank you,” she said anyway. “I will allow you and your teammates to meet in the council chamber.”

 _“Thank you, your Majesty,”_ Romanoff said humbly. Shuri gritted her teeth. _“Just to warn you, the Sorcerers of Kamar-Taj travel -”_

“With giant glowing portals, I’m aware,” Shuri interrupted. She could almost sense Romanoff’s raised eyebrow and stiffly said, “My people have eyes and ears in every corner of the world. We know of Stephen Strange and his order.”

_“Oh. My apologies.”_

“Thank you. Will that be all, Miss Romanoff?”

 _“It will, thank you,”_ the spy replied. _“Wong should be around shortly. We’re on our way up.”_

“Alright. Goodbye.”

Without another word, she ended the call; the United Nations summons swam back into view, its official logo and curt, aloof words like a knife against Shuri’s throat. She heaved a great sigh and quickly typed a response. She would see if any local ambassadors would be willing to attend; if not, then she would attend herself, in 24 hours.

_24 hours._

In less than a day, the world had become completely unrecognizable - and yet in another, it would be back on course. Politics, debates, forums. Rebuilding. That, of all things, never seemed to end.

She took a deep breath. Something in her told her to sit up straight, and she did, staring out the windows at the slashed battlefield.

 _Vibranium in your spine._ The voices of her old advisors echoed in her ears all at once. _You are strong and sturdy. Hold steady. Do not yield._

It was silent in the laboratory, and the wind whistled through the windows. Shuri slowly stood up and made her way to the back of the lab, where her prototypes were stored under lock and fingerprint-retina-blood-protected key. She opened a compartment, reached in.

It was just a prototype, but it would do. It would have to.

Shuri put on the nanobot necklace for the newest version of the suit, one her brother would never have a chance to test. Her reflection wavered on the metal walls of the compartment; she looked herself in the eye and raised her chin.

_This is no place to die._

Princess Shuri made for the stairs, with vibranium in her spine and the howling wind in her ears.

* * *

 

About half the seats in the council chamber were empty.

Bruce sat in his chair - surprisingly comfortable, for something that looked like it was mostly metal - and glanced around at the others. Everyone important that they could find was milling about in the council room, but it still felt too empty. His fingers laced together, unlaced, pulled and tugged. It was a vaguely soothing motion, but it did nothing to stop the raw feeling in his chest. Maybe it was an injury; he didn’t have time to stop by the Wakandans’ hospital to get checked.

Bruce swallowed and drew into himself, mentally cataloguing the parts of his body. Muscles tensed, released. _Back is strained. Most likely upper trapezius... Lower - ow. Lower part of shin showing signs of medial tibia stress. Deltoid sprain? Uh. Fuck. Definitely a rectus abdominus tear, hell, that_ hurts. _Oof. Let’s see, let’s see -_

Someone gently grasped his wringing hands.

Bruce glanced sharply to his right, and winced as his neck muscles protested. “Ah, fuck,” he hissed, jerking a hand away to rub at the muscles.

Thor cringed apologetically. “Sorry,” he said hastily. His remaining hand stayed on Bruce’s. “Are you alright?”

“Won’t be for a while,” Bruce muttered, kneading the muscle. The pain started to ebb, but he knew it would hurt like a bitch for days. “Yeah. I’ll live.”

“Good. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask,” Thor said kindly.

Bruce found a knot and pushed on it, cringing. “Ooh. Might take you up on that,” he muttered. “I might need some Asgardian strength to get these damn muscles to relax.”

“And what of your injuries?”

“They’ll…” Bruce trailed off. He would have said that they’d be fine, but normally they would have started to heal by now, thanks to the Hulk’s extra-fast regeneration. Hopefully he still had it. Hulk had made his stance pretty clear, when he slammed the metaphorical door on Bruce and left him to himself.

“They’ll heal,” he finally said.

Thor patted his hand. “I hope so,” he said seriously. Bruce swallowed and nodded once at him, slowly pulling his hand away.

Natasha sank heavily into the seat next to him, and Bruce gave her a polite nod. She returned it. They both stared at the table, resolutely not looking at each other. In the polished reflection of the table, Bruce saw Thor glance at him; his eyes drifted sideways and met Thor’s. In silent agreement, they winced slightly and looked away.

The doors suddenly boomed open, and Princess Shuri, accompanied by a handful of Dora Milaje, swept into the room. Natasha quickly stood up, placing a phone on the table in front of her; the others hastily followed suit. _Where’s T’Challa?_ Bruce wondered briefly, as he dragged his protesting body to his feet. But then he saw the nanosuit-necklace around Shuri’s throat, and the reddened eyes in her stony face, and understood. _Damn._ T’Challa was a good man. It was a shame that he’d…

“Sit, please,” said Shuri. Her young voice was cold, sharp as steel. Bruce gratefully took a seat, silently cursing out his back. Shuri herself remained standing before her chair, eyes sweeping over the assembled survivors. She seemed cool and unflappable, though there was a brief flicker of surprise when her eyes landed on Rocket. Then she shrugged slightly and moved on.

“Thank you all for being here,” she said, finally taking a seat. The Dora Milage grouped around her. “My brother was... among the fallen. For now, I will be conducting business in his stead, until an official replacement can be found."

"We're sorry for your loss," Steve said automatically.

Shuri tilted her head and gave him a calculating look. "I accept your apology," she said stiffly, and Bruce winced. Not a dismissal of the apology; there was blame there, and tension. Shuri knew full well that it was Steve's idea to bring Vision to Wakanda. 

She swiftly tore her eyes from Steve and continued. "As I understand it, Thor -”

Thor sat up straighter at his name.

“You… summoned the artifact to you, shortly after Thanos left?”

Thor cleared his throat. “I did, yes,” he said.

“Do you have it with you?” Shuri asked.

“Er… no.” Thor clasped his hands on the table, the thumb of his right hand rubbing the left. “Uh - the Ring has been in the protection of the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj for centuries,” he said awkwardly, “and. Well. They weren’t so enthusiastic about me getting my hands on it.”

Shuri’s lips tightened. “Hmm. Well - can you tell us what you and your people know about the Ring?” she asked tersely. She definitely wasn’t pleased about the Ring being out of sight.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Thor said.

He sat up and cleared his throat, his gaze broadening to include the rest of the table. Bruce angled himself towards Thor, listening carefully. “So. The ring,” Thor began, his voice strong but soft. “My father told me that it was forged thousands of years ago, by powers unknown, and Asgard laid claim to it. Bor, my grandfather, used it to bring the Nine Realms under his control. Until -”

“Until he fuckin’ lost it,” Rocket interrupted. Steve gave him an unimpressed look. “What?” the raccoon said defensively. “I figured as much, the ring’s here, ain’t it? Rational thought, c’mon-”

“I was getting to that,” Thor sighed. Rocket shrugged and settled back in his seat. “Yeah. The ring was lost on… on Earth, and when my grandfather passed, Odin took it upon himself to raise a blockade around this solar system.”

 _“A blockade,”_ said Natasha’s phone. Everyone’s eyes darted to it. _“If there was a blockade, then how the hell did Thanos get through?”_ said Clint’s voice.

“Oh, hello, Clint,” Thor said brightly. Only Bruce seemed to notice how forced his smile was, the lines of stress around his eyes. “Asgard was destroyed a few days ago by the demon Surtur. My father is dead. No Asgard, no Odin, no blockade.”

 _“Oh,”_ said Clint. _“Sorry, Thor. Didn't know.”_

“No need,” the Asgardian said briskly. He swallowed and looked at his hands again, entwined on the table. “It wasn’t perfect, anyway,” he added. “The Celestial Ego was able to get through once, and a crew of Ravagers snuck through once to kidnap Peter Quill.”

“A crew of what,” Rhodey said flatly.

 _"What's a Celestial?"_ Clint piped up.

Thor and Rocket said simultaneously, “Space pirates.”

"And Celestials are kinda gods, kinda not," Rocket added. "Ego's dead now, we had to kill him because he was tryin' to turn Quill into a planet. Or something." At everyone's confused silence, he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Yeah, tough to explain," he said shamelessly. “We can fill ya in, if - ”

“Can we stay on topic, please,” Shuri interjected.

Rocket heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Keep going, Thor.”

Thor shrugged and said hesitantly, “Well… that’s all I know. About the ring,” he said hastily, seeing everyone’s disgruntled expressions. That really wasn’t a lot to go off of. “I do know one other thing,” he added. “About ninety of your Earth years ago, some Centaurians were getting nosy around the barricade - Odin talked with them and found out they were looking for the ring, since the rumors about its disappearance were going stronger. So he… he wrote a story.”

Thor’s nervous wringing grew stronger. “A massive story,” he continued, “pulled from the facts of whatever great war resulted in Asgard getting the ring in the first place. He cast it across the galaxy somehow. Many planets picked it up, who either absorbed it into their popular culture or ignored it completely. Earth was one of them.”

“Let me guess.” Rhodey leaned forward and gave Thor a skeptical look, the prosthetic supporting his back whirring softly. “Tolkien got it.”

“From the looks of it, yes,” Thor admitted.

He sighed and spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t know that much about Earth’s version of the tale,” he said heavily. “But the version my father sent out… it was so detailed, so historically rich, it was like a history book in its own right. Any author would have gladly snapped it up and expanded it. Most worlds did. I just…”

He trailed off. “I had no idea that my father’s deception ran so deep on Midgard,” he softly admitted. “It is so… so ridiculously _popular,_ the moment you all even _saw_ the ring you began to rattle off references to the tale -”

A staticky bark of laughter came through Natasha’s phone. _“Hell, Thor,”_ Clint cackled, _“we’re practically obligated to reference it. It’s one of the most popular damn franchises in the world. People relate to it, you know? Gotta love good old-fashioned stories of heroism and bravery.”_

“I admit,” Shuri said, with a faint smile, “I’m a fan of it as well. The movies are almost older than I am, but I do enjoy the story.”

“ _The Hobbit_ was my favorite book growing up,” Steve offered softly.

Bruce said wryly, “Tony and I went to Comic-Con once as Sauron and the Witch-King. Nobody recognized us, under all the fake armor.” There were some soft snickers around the table.

 _“Yeah, Stark loves that shit,”_ Clint said again. _“So did Coulson - my call sign at SHIELD was Legolas for years before Stark jumped on that bandwagon -”_

_BLAM!_

An explosion blasted through the phone’s speakers. Everyone instinctively jerked away from the table. Bruce exchanged a startled look with Thor. They all stared at the phone, listening to the staticky sounds of howling wind and - was that a dog barking? “Clint,” Natasha snapped, hovering over the phone. “Clint, come in, are you there?”

No sound.

At Shuri’s end of the table, holograms sprung to life. Her fingers darted through several interfaces, settling on a map of the Atlantic Ocean. “Damn it,” she hissed. She pressed a button on her bracelet and commanded, “Pilot, what’s your status?”

Nothing but hissing static for a while. Then: “Princess Shuri,” a relieved, though tense, voice said. “We’ve been hit, with some sort of projectile - give me a minute-”

Natasha’s phone went silent.

Everyone froze and stared at it. “Clint?” Steve breathed.

No response.

Bruce’s hands started wringing again. This time, Thor didn’t stop him.

* * *

 

Wind howled through the hole in the jet’s hull. Clint had dropped his phone somewhere - hopefully it hadn’t been sucked out the hole - but he was more concerned with staying alive. He found a Wakandan oxygen mask and jammed it onto Lucky’s face, before finally putting one on himself.

A hull-sealing stream of nanobots crawled across the massive hole. Whatever had struck them was either really big and dense, or really small and traveling at high speeds - high enough to punch through vibranium. The jet reeled and twisted through the air, listing at odd angles. There was commotion in the cockpit - raised voices, alarms blaring. Clint held Lucky close. The seatbelts still held, but he wasn’t going to take any chances -

A bright gleam rocketed across the plane, towards the still-sealing hole. Instinctively, Clint reached out and grabbed it.

Just as his fingers touched it, he realized that it was glowing a familiar shade of yellow.

_Son of a fuck -_

His world faded to white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop, there it is. Full disclosure - I grabbed a list of random celebrities, pulled up a "yes or no" button in a new tab, and clicked away to find out which celebrities in the MCU were killed by the finger snap. The results were really shitty. Sorry about that. I did the same for the countries thing in Shuri's segment - it was all by chance. Really, really shitty chance. (also, all the edits I've seen on tumblr of lyrics from "Wait For It" superimposed on everybody's death scenes? i should be entitled to financial compensation from the emotional damages. I am Not Okay.)
> 
> Okay, next chapter should be out in about a week. My update schedule is about as sporadic as occurrences of morality in the United States, so no promises on that, but it'll be done. Next is a Tony-centric chapter; he feels the effects of the fight, and we say hello to an old friend. Stay tuned.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Come yell at/with me on my Marvel sideblog, https://www.thor-20.tumblr.com/ . Have a good day, y'all.


	4. Decapitation, Defibrillation, Decomposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he woke.
> 
> He would have sat up, if his abs didn’t feel like they’d been turned into concrete. And if there wasn’t a narrow ledge just above him, the right height for him to slam his forehead against, grimy with dust and God-knows-what. He lay on a slightly-comfortable mattress, a lumpy pillow under his head, and his brain was... strangely silent.
> 
> Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them again, staring up. “Huh,” he said softly.

_“Sun is shining in the sky… there ain’t a cloud in sight -”_

Tony caught himself humming along, bobbing his head to the upbeat tune. “ _It’s stopped raining,_ ” he mouthed, snapping his fingers. “ _Everybody’s in the lane…_ ” One overenthusiastic twirl later, and his feet skidded from under him. He hit the ground with an undignified gasp.

The sling ring slipped off his hand, flew up into the darkening Titan sky - spinning, almost in slow motion. He reached out -

_“And don’t you know, it’s a beautiful new day!”_

One hole of the sling ring slipped over his middle finger, and it feebly spun a bit before resting against his palm. His hand remained outstretched. The oncoming night swirled around his hands.

_“Hey-ey-ey!”_

Man, he was definitely losing it if he was dancing along to… _70’s_ _hippie music._ “Would you mind turning that shit off!” he screamed at the sky. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears.

In the ship, Nebula turned down the music. The near-silence left behind sunk claws into him.

It hadn’t taken long to find Quill’s old ship. Once Nebula found it, Tony knew almost right away - she’d powered it up, he’d heard the whine of its secondary engines, but it never flew over the rise to reach him. Tony climbed over the wreckage to see what was wrong. A giant piece of metal from a donut ship had crushed one of the wings and the rear thrusters. Nebula had been going through the ship’s systems and testing all the ones she could - including the exterior sound system, apparently - but propulsion engines were shot.

So. They were stuck.

Nebula better have one hell of a plan.

He just wished the grunt work didn’t hinge on him. He _had_ been able to make a sad excuse for a portal - it only traveled a foot, but it was big enough for him to walk through, feeling a strange tug at the back of his mind and a tingling in his chest. Not exactly a wormhole to Earth. But it was a start.

A really shitty start.

Tony heaved a sigh, wincing at how it strained his abs, and struggled to his feet. Titanic gravity was a literal pain in the ass. (Titanic. Titanian? Titani _um_? Whatever. It still sucked.) His feet slid on the gravel, and he dropped the ring in his effort to stay standing -

“Hoo, boy,” he wheezed. He put his arms out to either side to balance himself. His ears hissed, and he blinked slowly, shaking his head to clear it. _Dehydration, most likely._ Stand up once and the world starts to dissolve. Oy vey. Granted, night was falling and the world looked like it was made of murky paint water, but the spots dancing in his eyes had nothing to do with the setting sun.

“Hey, Smurfette,” he yelled. “D’you have -”

The world exploded.

“ **_MR. BLUE SKY, PLEASE TELL -_ ** **”**

Tony slammed his hands over his hissing ears. The ground was shaking. “Turn it off, _turn it off_!” he shrieked.

“ _It’s_ Nebula _, Terran!”_ the alien barked through the ship’s intercom.

“ **_WHY DID YOU HIDE AWAY FOR SOOOOO LOOOONG…”_ **

“Fine fine fine, Nebula! _Nebula!_ Jeez Louise,” Tony hissed, as the music shut off. “Got any water in there?”

There was a brief beat of true, blessed silence, broken only by Titan’s howling wind. “ _Some,_ ” the intercom crackled. “Give me some time.”

“Yeah, time,” Tony said, under his breath. “Got plenty of that, don’t we…”

Titan’s sun gleamed on Strange’s ring, lying in the dust. It winked green for the barest second, then turned into a lumpy green stone.

Tony took a step closer. “Huh,” he said as he looked down.

The stone glimmered innocently at him. _Glinnocently_ , Tony’s brain supplied. He nearly laughed, choosing instead to reach down for the green stone. Ring. Stone? No. It was a ring again. Hell. Tony was definitely losing it.

Whatever it was, he picked it up and slotted it back onto his fingers - okay, definitely a ring, a stone wouldn’t be able to do that. Giving his hands an experimental wiggle, he looked up and saw the back of Steve Rogers’ head.

“Rogers?” Tony said curtly. He tried and failed to keep the question out of his voice, and he hated himself for it. The dying rays of Titan’s sun glimmered in Steve’s hair - in the clouds, in the hair, and Tony _blinked._

The sun was gone?

He huffed faintly, one corner of his mouth twitching. Steve’s broad shoulders were just torn metal, his hair a last wink of sunlight before Titan’s sun disappeared over the horizon. Okay. Good. That would’ve been tough to explain. He heaved a great sigh and lifted his hands, muscles burning like they’d been pumped full of nitroglycerin. Tony’s fingers twisted, into the best approximation of Strange’s gestures that he could recall -

“You’re going about this all wrong.”

The familiar baritone made Tony scream and whip around. The sight of Peter Parker sitting on a rocky outcrop, holding an English textbook and frowning at it like it had insulted his aunt, nearly made him scream again. He was eerily still. A statue. A photograph.

Peter’s mouth moved - the only part of him that moved - and Strange’s voice came out. “It’s like Apparition,” Peter-Strange said. “Think of a destination.” The textbook changed to a laptop. “Then find it in yourself to _need_ to be there.” The laptop became a Jericho missile, or something shaped like one but weighing little, so little that Peter’s body didn’t even move - “Then make a portal, and you’re there. Poof. Poof. Poof.”

Strange’s voice skipped like a scratched CD. “Poof. Poof.”

The Jericho missle dissolved into dust - and Peter’s hands began to crumble beneath it. He stayed rigid, staring at his hands, Strange’s voice pouring from his still-moving mouth. “No,” Tony breathed. He staggered towards him. “No, no, _no -”_

“Poof. Poof. Poof.”

Peter’s body dissolved right out of his suit, which stayed molded in the shape of his body -

 _“Poof._ ”

The suit exploded into a vortex of red butterflies, every twitch of their wings smug and insufferable and _it was a cloak._ Strange’s draconian face swam into view above its collar, hidden in the shadow of a Titan night. “For fuck’s sake, Tony,” he said exasperatedly. His eyes glittered like stars. They were stars. He could see clear through Stephen Strange’s fucking head to the night sky above, and they were actually _stars_ \- “Come _on,_ Stark, get it together. You built a suit - _”_

_“In a cave!”_

Obadiah Stane’s voice screamed across the sky, and Tony’s entire body flinched. Stephen mouthed along.

_“With a box of scraps!”_

_How -_

“You can do this, Tony,” said a chorus of voices, from Stephen’s mouth; Tony imagined that he could hear, beneath Stephen's baritone, the voices of the Guardians and - and Peter, and -

“Stark.”

It was the blue alien chick. “Oh, it’s you,” Tony said breathlessly, still looking at Stephen. “I’m in the middle of something here, would you mind?”

Nebula tilted her head slowly and fixed him with a calculating stare. She said carefully, “You said you wanted water.”

Stephen raised an elegant eyebrow. “You need it, too,” he said dryly. “Doesn’t take a doctor to see that you look like shit.”

“Stark?”

Something strange was in Nebula’s voice. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

“A dragon,” Tony blurted out. Stephen’s other eyebrow went up. “Or something,” he added. In a stage whisper, he gestured at his face and said, “It’s the cheekbones.” Stephen rolled his eyes.

Nebula heaved a great sigh and grumbled something that didn’t quite translate into English. “That does it,” she said, pulling something out of her pocket and jabbing it into the side of his neck.

“Hey!” Tony yelped, slapping her away. “What the shit, that _hurt!_ What was that?”

“Something you need,” Nebula said curtly. Stephen nodded in agreement, and Tony glared at him. Traitor. “You’re talking to thin air. You need sleep.”

Tony shrugged. “Thin air, maybe not. Now, thin -” His eyes swept up and down Stephen’s lanky body, and the sorcerer crossed his arms. Crossly. Ugh, his head was feeling woozier than ever. “Thin, maybe so. Er - not thin, wiry, you’re not _complete_ skin and bone -”

A harsh Titan wind swept through the narrow tunnel made by two broken donut ships. Dust kicked into Tony’s face. “Rude,” he said to Stephen, and then realized.

There was nobody there.

Stephen Strange was dead.

Who had he been talking to?

What -

“Night night,” Nebula said, and she was _definitely_ scowling.

The last thing he saw before he blacked out were two stars, gleaming on the horizon.

* * *

And he woke.

He would have sat up, if his abs didn’t feel like they’d been turned into concrete. And if there wasn’t a narrow ledge just above him, the right height for him to slam his forehead against, grimy with dust and God-knows-what. He lay on a slightly-comfortable mattress, a lumpy pillow under his head, and his brain was... strangely silent.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them again, staring up. “Huh,” he said softly.

He braced his elbows against the mattress, hissing as his leaden limbs protested, and got out of the small alcove. A bunk, then. He was on the _Benatar,_ and it looked like the inside of a dive bar. Or a pirate ship. In space. From what he could tell, that was an apt job description for the erstwhile Guardians.

Tony shambled down the hall to the cockpit; there were six seats there - he could guess whose they were. Quill, the unseen-and-tragically-dead Gamora, Mr. Clean, bug lady, and two others, one covered in animal hair and the other dusted with pollen. The seats faced a giant viewport that showed a whole lotta reddish-brown sand.

Nebula was perched in one of the seats, idly fiddling with dials on the dashboard. “Whatcha doing, Captain Picard?” he said cheerfully, bracing one of his hands on the back of her seat.

Nebula went still for a moment. “Not an insult,” Tony said quickly. “Captain Picard is a fucking badass. Great dude. Real swell. Definitely not an insult.” _Just a bald joke,_ he added silently. _God, I hope Quill didn’t tell them about Star Trek… or did he get abducted before Next Generation came out?_

A brief silence. Then Nebula tilted her head in acknowledgement and returned to the dashboard. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said. One of the screens flashed something; Nebula stared at it and cursed quietly. “I assume you slept well.”

Tony frowned and thought back. “Yeah. It was… unusually… dreamless,” he said slowly. It was true. It was as if he’d only blinked once and found himself in that bunk, though the exhaustion in his limbs was completely gone.

“Good. I drugged you,” Nebula said blandly, and Tony bristled. “You needed it; something in the antiseptics I gave you was giving you some... vivid hallucinations. So I stuck you with a sleeper and some actual Terran medicine.”

“You drugged me,” Tony said flatly.

“Nothing harmful to Terrans,” Nebula dismissed, as if that made it any better. “Quill kept it with his things. His genetics are Terran enough these days that it wouldn’t harm him. You slept for about thirteen hours.” Tony tried to think about why Quill might need knockout-meds like that close by - ones strong enough to erase dreams, to even ease tension and pain from his muscles. He came up empty.

Then he realized what Nebula said. “Jesus, really? Thirteen hours?”

“Yes. I timed it. I was getting bored, waiting for you to wake up.”

Nebula plugged in a code. Something flashed on the screen; it looked like some kind of broadcasting symbol, all radiating ripples, and Tony frowned at it. “How’s your progress on the portal?” she asked curtly.

He jerked away. “Right, right,” he said uneasily, a faint edge of nausea coming on. He ran a hand over his beard. “Uh. Wasn’t so great. Only managed to open one that traveled a foot, and _that_ was weird, I had to stick my head through and look back to see a foot of empty air through my body, _that’s_ gonna haunt my dreams…”

He trailed off when Nebula didn’t respond. “Yeah, not great,” he finally said.

Nebula hummed idly. After staring at the screen for several tense moments, she stood up - Tony swiftly moved out of the way - and glided towards another console. She tugged off one of her fingers, revealing what looked like a space USB, and stuck it into the console. After a while, a flat disc shot out, and she removed her finger. “Here,” she said curtly, throwing it at Tony. “Press the button on the edge to start the hologram. Study it.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” Tony said, sketching a salute.

Nebula’s eyes glimmered humorlessly, and her shoulder knocked into his as she swept back to her original seat. Yikes. “Just get started,” she practically barked, throwing herself into the chair. “We don’t have much time.”

Alrighty then. Tony glanced around and made for the airlock, strolling down the ramp to the dusty Titan ground. The sun blasted through great maelstroms of churning clouds; every bit of light was like a dagger to the skull.  He turned away from the light and the amber sky, slowly pushing his grimy fingers through his hair. Goddamn, he needed a shower. Maybe he’d give the sonic showers a shot.

Then his eyes landed on that rock - the rock that his hallucination of Peter had been sitting on. Swept clean of dust; shadows flickering. Strange’s voice coming from his mouth. Damn that had been _weird._ He hadn’t had an exhaustion-fueled hallucination for a long, long while.

Not one that bad since Siberia.

_Stop that, Stark._

Stephen’s voice hissed in the wind, and Tony jerked around, staring wildly. Nothing - not even a shadow. He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, pressing until he saw technicolor clouds. He was losing it. Losing his fucking mind. On a barren rock in the ass end of nowhere, almost the only living thing there, because Thanos had won and everyone had died, died, _died -_

He dropped the disk. It hit the ground on its edge, rolled, and landed face-up.

Stephen Strange suddenly shimmered onto the air - a cold blue-white Star Wars-ey hologram, nothing like _whatever_ he’d seen yesterday. There were his hands, crooked just so; there was the ring, a muted shimmer among bluish static. So why couldn’t he do it?

Maybe the fucking hallucination was onto something.

Tony looked at the scars on Stephen’s hands, visible even in the shitty hologram, and swallowed, turning it off. _Come on. Come on._ Rhodey made him marathon all the _Harry Potter_ books once. Peter had… His lips tightened, and he adjusted the ring on his fingers. He could remember this. Same principle. Okay. What was it. _Decapitation, Defibrillation, Decomposition..._ His brain grasped for words.

 _Destination_ , Stephen’s unimpressed voice muttered in his mind.

Right. Destination. Was it Earth? Did Nebula have a map of the United States or something programmed into her? Tony huffed and looked up at the sky, and the more he thought, the more he realized they were fucked.

They definitely didn’t think this through. “Nebula?” he called, walking back to the ship.

He found her sitting in the same chair, still staring at the screen. Nothing had visibly changed. He put his hand on the back of her chair - she gave him an irritated glance - and said sternly, “So are you ever going to tell me the plan? Because I need an actual location to go to, you know.”

Nebula turned fully and looked at him. “We are going to Terra,” she said slowly, as if to a child.

“Yeah, about that,” Tony drawled. He clasped his hands together in front of him. “Not going to happen.”

“Why not -”

“See, this portal business is a little more complicated, from what I can tell,” Tony interrupted. “I need an exact location, because if I don’t have one, there’s a fucking high chance that we might get dumped a bajillion light-years outside of where we’re supposed to be, or portal into the molten core of the planet. Not ideal. Besides - I don’t know where Earth is relative to Titan, I don’t know how the solar system moves proportionally to whatever star system we’re in, and -”

He flailed his hands around a little. “It’s across a fucking _galaxy,_ ” he spluttered. “Light years, for fucks sake. I can barely make a portal that goes a _foot._ This much,” he added, holding up his hands for emphasis. Nebula gave him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, I know, it’s shit. We don’t have the tech or time to physically bend space and make the actual distance shorter. No _Wrinkle In Time_ for us today. I might be able to crank this to a hundred miles, but that’s really optimistic.”

He shrugged and let his hands fall. “So you better have a plan B, I guess,” he said lamely. “I got nothing. I’m not a pro at space portal travel. Actively try to avoid it, in fact.”

Nebula only hummed, turning back to the dashboard. “Well, get cracking on that hundred-mile portal,” she said blandly, putting in codes and listening to static. Tony threw up his hands in defeat and wandered back outside.

* * *

 

Eight hours, two awkwardly silent meals with Nebula, a few gallons of water, and one near decapitation later, Tony had finally gotten the hang of it.

Night on Titan had fallen again, accompanied by the chilling winds and occasional stars winking through the cloud-smeared sky. He’d succeeded in creating a portal that led from the _Benatar_ to an old courtyard some distance away; when he stepped through it, the sensors in his suit told him that he was a little over 140 miles from the ruined ship. The courtyard reeked of age. Clouds of time rose around his feet, and the world seemed to stand still. There was no dead grass between the paving stones; a grandiose metal fountain was clotted with dust, and had clearly been so for years.

It was like Charn, from that old book _The Magician’s Nephew_ \- a city lost to time and despotism, never meant to wake. Hopefully there wasn’t some crusty-ass Titan queen in a creepy hallway at the back of the palace. That would be tough to fight their way out of.

Tony didn’t linger there. He slipped through the portal, feeling that same strange _tug_ at the back of his mind that he’d felt while making it, and let it close. “We got it,” he called out as he approached the airlock, hoping Nebula was listening.

She was. “Finally,” she shouted. There was a giant _clank_ sound, and one of the panels at the back of the _Benatar_ ground open; a single small ship came out. An escape pod? He saw Nebula in the hatch behind it; she leapt out after the dinky pod and landed heavily on the rocks, dust kicking up around her heels. “About time,” she said harshly. “I was wondering if you’d gotten yourself killed.”

“Hey, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” Tony grumbled, rubbing his left shoulder. His arm had nearly gone stiff from holding his hand in place, a focal point for each portal. That’d hurt like a bitch for _days_. “Feel like I got run over by an 18-wheeler. You know what that is, right…?” Nebula merely raised an eyebrow, and didn’t even dignify that with a response. Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to start pulling it out. “Never mind. So. What’s our plan, Fearless Leader?”

Nebula blinked. “Make a portal,” she said.

“Got that -”

“Starting here,” she said, pointing at the ground. Tony’s eyebrows flew up. “And ending about a hundred miles up.”

Tony stared at her, not bothering to mask his disbelief. _What the fuck._ “What the _fuck,_ ” he said out loud, for good measure. “That’s - that’s _ridiculous -_!”

“Not entirely,” Nebula said, her mechanical voice toneless. She crossed her arms and fixed him with a stern look. “Titan’s gravity is too erratic for us to launch properly.”

Tony offered, “I could probably figure it out -”

“We don’t have _time_ for you to figure out alien ship interfaces,” Nebula interrupted. The night cast harsh shadow over her, making her eyes nothing but gaping black holes in her skull. “This is faster. Make a portal that leads from the ground to the sky. I’ll fly this -” She gave the escape pod a good whack. “-into the portal. It should dump us outside of Titan’s atmosphere, and we can get away.”

 _That’s not how gravity works, but okay,_ Tony thought sourly. Titan’s gravitational pull would extend far beyond the atmosphere; they’d have a hell of a time trying to escape that. Then again, he realized, looking at the dinky escape pod, he knew jack shit about alien propulsion systems. Apparently they had lightspeed figured out already, the lucky bastards. Maybe they had one crammed into this pod somewhere, as impossible at it may seem.

Well. Maybe Nebula wasn’t completely off her rocks. This could work.

“Okay, so, portal time,” he huffed, cracking his knuckles. He held out his hands yet again, trying to get himself into the right headspace. Nebula’s glittering black eyes watched him intently, her gaze like ants on his skin. He huffed and gave her an unimpressed look. “Could you not do that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at his face.

“What?”

“Staring at me like you’re watching for mistakes like a nitpicky third-grade teacher, _can you please stop,”_ he snapped. “It’s messing me up.”

“Just pretend I’m not here,” Nebula said stonily.

“Well, then that’d trick my brain into thinking that I’m _actually_ alone on this planet by myself,” Tony said, “and you know, that would really really suck.” He felt a small twinge of panic and dropkicked it into the back of his mind. Not now, _not now._

“Just pretend you’re Strange,” Nebula suggested. _No issues there,_ Tony thought dryly. “Wouldn’t be too hard, you hallucinated him vividly enough the other night that you started _checking him out_ -”

“And we’re done,” Tony said quickly, bringing his hands up and beginning to sketch a portal. Damn it, he wasn't proud of any of that; those alien antiseptics had fucked him _up._ He was engaged. And straight. Probably. Okay, his mind was wandering now. _Destination, determination, defibrillation. Come on, Stark, you got this._

Sparks flew from his hands. He imagined the night sky above him, the glimmer of stars; the distance he wanted _stretched_ within him, a hundred miles coiled in his heart and reaching for the stars.

A hissing, spitting circle of orange fire slowly opened in the ground. Stars lay at their feet. Tony worked his fingers through the fabric of space and held it open, wide enough for the ship to go through. “Okay. We good?” he said tersely, doing his best not to stare through the portal for too long. Last time he’d gone through a portal into space…

Well.

That wasn’t so great.

“That’s good,” Nebula confirmed. “Now just concentrate on keeping it open, and get on the ship.”

“I hear and obey, your majesty,” Tony said through gritted teeth, slowly lowering his hands. Maybe it was the direction of the portal this time, but keeping it open was harder than the one to the courtyard. It was still sort of the same: a crushing presence in his head, reminding him that _the fabric of space is open; do not close it, do not close it._

Nebula keyed open the door to the escape pod and climbed in; Tony followed, still concentrating on the portal. For a moment he looked up at the pitch-black sky. He almost imagined he saw the other end of their portal among the cold white stars.

“Stark. Let’s go.”

Nebula was sitting in one of the seats; Tony came forward and sank into the other one. “Am I steering?” he asked hesitantly.

“No.”

“Come on, I was able to fly a donut ship here after looking at the freaky controls for half a second, cut me some slack -”

“We’re not going that far,” Nebula cut him off.

“I thought -”

“Shut up and let me do what I have to do!” she barked, slamming her hand on the dashboard. The ship powered up and the airlock hissed shut. Tony could only grab the armrests and stare, wide-eyed, out the viewport as the ship edged forward. Into the ground. Into the sky.

Into space.

Jesus, this was weird. Titan was spread below them, a nasty orange pimple on the face of the cosmos. Tony took a deep breath of canned spaceship air and stared down at it. There it was. A tomb for Titans, but not for the one that mattered. A grave for Peter, for Strange, for the Guardians. Shrouded in the orange haze of its atmosphere; turning, turning, its landforms disappearing into the stark line of shadow between night and day. Splitting the planet in half. His lip curled.

The dashboard crackled. _“Pod ID FSMP-3791, you’re clear to dock.”_

Tony whipped around to the viewport and gasped, slamming his back into the seat in efforts to get away. “Nebula, _what the fuck!”_ he shrieked. In his panic, he let his concentration slip, and the portal fizzled out. The side of a massive spaceship loomed before them.

“Sit down and shut up,” Nebula snarled. She pressed a few buttons and swiveled the ship, lining up their airlocks. Their tiny pod echoed with the sound of grinding gears and docking equipment. “This was part of the plan.”

“ _Plan_ ?” Tony knew he sounded like a whistling teakettle, but he was too stressed to give a fuck. “You didn’t _have_ a fucking plan! ‘Get to Earth,’ yeah, that was the fucking _idea_ to begin with! I -”

Nebula whirled and grabbed his shoulders. “Stark,” she hissed, her cybernetic fingers crushing his shoulders. “these are good people. Put on your fucking suit if you want to feel better about yourself -”

“Didn’t need you to tell me that, thanks,” he blurted out, slamming his hand on the arc reactor. Nanobots crawled out and encased his body in a familiar embrace, even covering his hastily-glued wound. He’d probably have to get that stitched up. Maybe.

The mask clanked over his face, and his HUD lit up, all sorts of data streaming through it. Right now he had bigger problems.

Nebula powered down the ship and stood up. “Come on, Stark,” she said curtly.

“Oh, no. No, no, I’m not ‘coming on’ until you tell me where we are,” he asserted, crossing his arms.

Nebula heaved a long-suffering sigh. “A friend’s ship,” she said exasperatedly; the way she said “friend” suggested that this person was more of a “passing acquaintance” or “frenemy.” Still. Nebula had a stick up her ass the size of the Burj Khalifa, anyone _she_ stooped to call a friend couldn’t be too bad.

He still kept the suit on.

“I’m not going to say it again, let’s _go,_ ” she all but snarled.

“Okay, sheesh, coming,” Tony muttered, clambering out of his seat. “Though if I get strung up and eaten by your alien buddies, that’s on your conscience.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” Nebula grumbled, jabbing a keypad next to the airlock.

“Hey, me too. What a coincidence.”

“You’re being obnoxious.”

“Glad I can help.”

The airlock hissed open. Beyond was a man who looked like a wannabe punk: shaved head, crooked teeth and a scraggly beard, long leather coat, with a weird red fin crammed onto his head like a mohawk. “Nebula!” he drawled, giving her a crooked grin. “Long time no see.”

“You look like shit, Kraglin,” Nebula muttered in return.

“Ain’t nothin’ new there,” the man - Kraglin, what a fucking name - said cheerfully. His eyes flickered to Tony and flew open. “Well, goddamn,” he said appreciatively. “That’s one hell of a bot you got there -”

Tony flipped his faceplate up. “Not a ‘bot’, you crusty punk,” he said harshly. “Human through and through.”

“Oh, hell, that’s _wicked,_ ” Kraglin exclaimed. “Sorry ‘bout that, you got a real good piece of work on ya.” He held a hand out to Tony, who cautiously took it. His jacket fell open a little; Tony saw a deadly-looking red arrow tucked inside. “Kraglin Obfonteri, Ravager captain,” he said, shaking Tony’s hand. “Good to meet another Terran. Hopefully you’re not as much of a loose screw as the other one.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Tony said, smirking slightly. “I’m Tony Stark.” He tried to think of a title to add to the end, but nothing really seemed to fit. Then he paused and gave Kraglin a skeptical look. “Wait - _another_ Terran?” he said.

The other man nodded and let go; the fin on his head stayed stationary. Made of metal, then? “Knew Peter Quill when he was growin’ up,” he said, an amused glimmer in his eye. Tony’s heart sank. “Gave ‘im hell, too. Tell me he’s on there somewhere, ain’t seen him since the mess with his daddy three years… back…”

He trailed off. The amusement on his face was replaced with slack horror, as he stared at Nebula. She looked back emotionlessly. “Don’t tell me,” he whispered. “Not ‘im.”

Nebula nodded once. “No,” he said softly. “Goddamnit. I hoped he’d’ve made it, out of anybody…”

Kraglin slammed his fist into the side of the airlock, and Tony suppressed a flinch. He seemed to have aged ten years. Slowly, his eyes locked on Nebula’s, then Tony’s, and the cold intensity in them gave Tony an unpleasant chill. “You two,” he said quietly, “better get your butts in here and tell me exactly what the fuck is goin’ on.”

* * *

Less than a minute later, Tony’s suit clanked through the main parts of Kraglin’s ship - named the _Hammerhand,_ for a reason Kraglin didn’t have time or energy to explain. Ahead of him, Kraglin and Nebula quietly conversed; he heard Terra mentioned a few times in passing. Other than that the halls were silent. Every now and then, he glimpsed an alien or something through a window, or at the end of another passage, but other than that the massive ship was completely deserted.

He passed a pile of dust and cringed. That would explain it.

Ahead, Kraglin stalked down the hall to a massive open space; it looked like the flight deck of the Helicarrier, back in the day when Tony’d been there last - just deep-fried, grimy and completely disgusting. This ship had been through a lot. “Oi, Gorran!” he shouted down, his voice echoing.

A fuzzy alien with a machine gun strapped to his back popped up from behind a distant console. It let out some ungodly screeching sounds that made Tony clap his hands over his ears.

“Get us to the Terran system, would ya?”

More screeching.

“There ain’t no blockade anymore,” Kraglin yelled back. “We sailed through whatever’s left of Asgard last night! No way in hell that the blockade’s still there, come on!”

“Blockade? What blockade?” Tony muttered to Nebula.

“Blanket term for Asgard’s protective barrier around their territories,” Nebula muttered back. Below them, the alien made a face at the captain and ducked back down. The reminder of Asgard’s destruction left a sour taste in Tony’s mouth, and he turned away.

A squeaky voice said something over the intercom in an alien language, and the massive viewport suddenly exploded with light. “Huh,” Tony said idly, watching the glowing streaks of light blast past. “Guess _Star Wars_ got something right.”

Kraglin hummed idly beside him and walked off. Nebula followed, so Tony had no other choice. “You know _Star Wars?_ ” he called to the man. “Get intergalactic cable out here?”

“Nah, Quill told me about it,” Kraglin said tonelessly. “When we first picked him up, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Luke Drywaller -”

“Skywalker -”

“- and all his buddies,” he continued, as if Tony hadn’t spoken. “He loved that sci-fi shit. Must’ve been a hell of a shock when he started livin’ it.”

They turned the corner into a musty room; reasonably large, appallingly stained, with a massive table in the middle. Kraglin sat down in a seat near the end; Tony and Nebula sat down on either side. “Peter was a good kid,” he sighed, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t always treat him right, but he turned out fine. How did it happen?”

The question came so fast that Tony, who was staring with vague horror at the stains on the ceiling, was so caught off guard. “What?” he said, bewildered.

Kraglin’s gaze was cold and unblinking. “How did he die?” he repeated.

Hell. “It’s a long story,” Tony said, looking down at the table, away from Kraglin’s eyes.

“We got time,” Kraglin said. “Jump to earth will be about 43 hours, at the pace we’re going. Start from the beginning.”

And he did.

The battle in the streets of New York. Strange’s capture, Peter - _his_ Peter - stowing away. Getting on board, killing Ebony Maw, then that stupid decision to take the fight to Titan. The words just wouldn’t stop spilling out of him, each one seizing something deep inside and _twisting._ He had to speak. He hoped that his words would make the cold nothingness - the _blame_ \- pull away from Kraglin’s eyes, because the Ravager captain just _sat_ there and _stared._

He couldn’t linger on Titan. He just couldn’t. So Tony finished lamely, trying not to let the memories drag him down. Still too fresh. “So… apparently Thanos got to Earth and got his hands on the last stone, so… That was all he needed to complete the set. Then…” He waved a hand, the servos of his suit whirring. “Poof,” he said lamely. “They were gone. Peter and the Guardians, and Strange, and… and…”

Something caught in his throat. Nebula stood up and left. His eyes stung, and he called back one of the gauntlets so he could scrub away the tears. “And Peter,” he whispered. “Peter Parker.”

_I don’t feel so good -_

“Crumbled to dust right in my arms,” he said, tilting back in his chair and staring at the filthy ceiling.

“He yours?” Kraglin said quietly. A strange kind of quiet, his voice was - not soft with repressed anger, not dull with grief. Tony sat back and looked at him again.

The coldness had dropped away - not completely, but enough for him to know what it was: just a wall, to hide his grief. Boy, he knew that look well.  “He might as well have been,” Tony said, his voice just above a whisper.

“Guess we both lost a Peter, then,” Kraglin said, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

He idly pulled the arrow from his pocket. “We took Peter Quill on when he was eight years old,” he explained, scratching random shapes into the table’s surface. “His father told Yondu - my old cap’n - to kidnap him and bring him over to his planet, so he could kill him.” Tony blinked. “Thing is, Yondu basically told ‘im to fuck right off and kept Peter on, for some reason. He grew on us, ya know?”

Kraglin set down the arrow and stood up, wandering towards a cabinet on one side. “Yondu treated us both like his kids,” he called over his shoulder. He pulled open the cabinet - a space fridge, then - and pulled out two bottles, wandering back to the table. “Just - more of the tough love kinda thing. More tough than love. So brother by association, I guess.”

Kraglin sat heavily and shoved a bottle towards Tony. He gave the space liquor a suspicious look. “So,” the Ravager captain said simply. “What was yours like, huh?”

What the hell. Tony slammed a fist on his arc reactor, calling back the bots, and reached for the bottle. Kraglin watched the nanobots scurry over his chest with a seen-it-all face and an appreciative glint in his eye. “Peter Parker was one crazy kid,” he said thickly, cracking open the bottle.

“Tell me about it,” Kraglin muttered sympathetically.

So they talked, and drank, and drank some more. The two bottles on the table grew to four, then eight, then ten. The alcohol reached into Tony, into a place deep and dark and forgotten, covered over by an artificial sternum and new scarred skin. He wandered backwards through his life. So did Kraglin. He told Tony of his life on the _Eclector,_ Yondu’s Udonta’s old ship - all his misadventures and time in jail. Blowing up Quill’s dad - and _that_ was a story. Then further back, further down, to Xandar and its three suns.

It was dust and ashes, now. Magma floating in space.

Kraglin’s words failed him, and Tony filled the silence. He kept reaching into his past, and when Kraglin didn’t understand what he was referencing he reached further and further. To the airport. To Sokovia. To the Mandarin, New York, Vanko, and then…

And then to Stane and that cave in Afghanistan. He spoke of how he couldn’t stand to go swimming anymore, because of the way they’d held him under the water until his screams left him in a rush of bubbles. He told him, in great detail, of how it feels to have hands reaching into your chest and pulling your heart out.

“That happened to me once,” Kraglin mused, swirling his tenth or eleventh bottle of shitty A'askvariian beer. “I’m Xandarian. We got two hearts and two livers. One time I got hit with…”

* * *

“... Yondu’s dumbass arrow on accident… ‘course, it’s _my_ dumbass arrow now, but back then it was Yondu’s, and… hey.” Kraglin stopped. “You listenin’?”

Tony’s head dipped towards his chest. Kraglin stopped and squinted at the Terran. Man, he must be a lightweight. Or couldn’t stomach A'askvariian liquor. Or maybe he was a recovering alcoholic, if what he’d been saying was right. Kraglin swore quietly and put his bottle down. Damn, look at him, fucking up this poor man’s life even more.

He leaned over the table and shoved Tony in the shoulder. “Hey, you metal motherfucker, you with me?” he called.

The man’s head slowly swiveled to rest on his left shoulder. “Crystal,” Tony mumbled.

The Ravager captain sighed heavily. “Yeah, you’re toasted,” he muttered. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed. You gotta sleep this off, c’mon, buddy.” He stood up and looped an arm under Tony’s shoulders.

“Don’t… don’t bother,” Tony said woozily, slowly shoving Kraglin’s arm off his shoulder. His hands grabbed for his arc reactor - and damn, wasn't that a sweet piece of work - missed twice, and finally connected, summoning the suit. “Jus’ tell me where to go.”

Kraglin squinted at him. “Take a left, then second door on your right,” he said slowly. Last he checked, that bunk was empty, after most of his crew crumbled to dust.

Tony sketched a drunken salute and staggered backwards towards the door. “Sure thing, cap’n,” he said to Kraglin, with a lopsided grin. “Hear that, suit? Keep a’walkin’.”

The suit started to walk on its own, slowly marching down the main hallway of the _Hammerhand._ “See you later, Craggy,” Tony shouted over his shoulder. “Nice talk.”

“Same here, Shellhead,” the man called out. “Don’t throw up in your suit!”

Tony’s metal footsteps clanked out of sight, leaving the room in dead quiet. Kraglin idly swept up the empty liquor bottles and shoved them in the recycler, picking up his arrow while he was at it. Damn, that was one hell of a story. Terrans really got into some weird shit, for a primitive planet. Maybe he’d swing by someday in peacetime, when this whole mess was over.

Well. He and the good ship _Hammerhand_ were headed there now. And Kraglin, as he moseyed out of the everything-but-surgery-because-goddamnit-he-didn’t-want-to-see-what-was-left-of-Hyrghor’s-spleen-on-the-table-while-he-was-eating-breakfast-room, cast an uneasy eye at the ansible in the control room.

Now that Odin’s rule of terror was technically over, he had a job to do.

Kraglin strode down the stairs, fiddling with the yaka arrow in his pocket, and sat in the seat by the ansible, propping his feet on the control panel. He’d yelled at his crew for doing that before, but he was the captain, dammit - and besides, only four of them were left anyway, after Thanos snapped his fingers and shit. Not a problem. He keyed in a code and waited for the ansible to patch him through.

Chattin’ with other ships while warping was sketchy at best and a disaster at worse, but the Sovereigns had figured it out, and the Ravagers had promptly stolen their method when they got the chance. While going lightspeed, you were going too fast for a ship to really communicate with you. So you just guessed. Take estimated trajectory at times x, y, and z, and send your message to the point in warp space where you think the other guy’d be. It worked pretty well, as long as neither the sender or receiver was a complete dumbass. And as long as they had the Ravagers’ twice-pirated ansible technology. That did all the work for ya.

As it was, it took the ship’s ansible a while to connect. When it finally did, Kraglin could hear the whistle of warpspeed in the background, and grinned. “Hey there, Commander,” he said, picking his teeth with one grimy fingernail. "You warpin' somewhere?"

“Captain Obfonteri,” Stakar Ogord grumbled on the other end. “Good to hear from you. And by that, I mean very bad. Caught me at a shit time. This better be good.”

“Sure is,” Kraglin confirmed. He idly looked at his finger and wiped it on his pants. “I learned why half the Ravagers in the galaxy suddenly went poof.”

“Why?”

“Thanos. He got all six Infinity Stones.”

Silence. “Please tell me you’re kidding,” Ogord finally demanded, and Kraglin pretended he didn’t hear the quaver of fear in his commander’s voice.

“Sir, I wish to the seven hells that I was kidding. But hey, on the plus side -”

“How is there a _plus side,_ that deformed purple nutsack got all the stones and -!”

“On the plus side, Asgard got _pounded_ ,” Kraglin practically shouted over his commander. “The barricade around the Terran system is down. I’m headed there now.”

“Oh, isn’t that great,” Ogord sighed. “About fucking time. They all dead?”

“From what I can tell, yeah,” Kraglin said. “I ran into -”

He chuckled. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

“Try me.”

“I ran into the fool idiot that blew the Chitauri to kingdom come a few years back,” Kraglin chortled. “He’s a _Terran._ Lemme tell you about this fella. He designed weapons, and got blown up by one of his own missiles a few years back…”

“Tell me later,” Ogord interrupted. Kraglin shrugged and went back to picking his teeth. “I want to know about the Terran system.”

“Right. You want me to look for your buddy on Earth?”

“Yes. Until I can get there myself,” Ogord said. “Scout around. Ask questions. Don’t steal anything.

“Yes, mom.”

“Try not to get killed or arrested.”

“Damn, there goes my bucket list,” Kraglin drawled. He ignored Ogord’s warning growl and added, “I’ll do my best, okay? Talk later, C’mander. See ya.”

Ogord hung up. Kraglin dug a persistent hunk of orloni meat out from his teeth and flicked it at the ground, staring out at the streaks and shadows of warp space streaming past. Man, Ogord’s buddy better still be around, because if they weren’t… that’d be one hell of an awkward debriefing.

Kraglin yawned and made for the stairs, stumbling slightly. That shitty A'askvariian beer was finally getting to him. This jump would take a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn, the chapters just keep getting longer. First one was just over 1000 words, this one was a monster at over 7,000. I cannot be stopped. Not until Google Docs crashes again. Phooey. Sorry for the length, I just wanted Tony to get the fuck off of Titan.
> 
> The song at the beginning is, of course, "Mr. Blue Sky" by Electric Light Orchestra - the song that Baby Groot was dancing along to at the beginning of Guardians of the Galaxy vol. 2. I might just be tired, but that song fucking slaps. Anything you don't recognize from the Marvel universe is probably yoinked from Wikipedia. Stakar Ogord, for you MCU-only folks, is the same person as Starhawk - the Sylvester Stallone character from GOTG2.
> 
> Also, anyone who caught the three LOTR references that I (consciously) put into this chapter... congratulations, you're a giant nerd. Hint: one was a movie scene, one is an acronym, and one is a piece of in-LOTR-universe history. Comment if you figured it out, or if you're that one IRL person that i know who's still reading this (and you know who you are) hmu. Until next time. Which might be very soon, since I'm riding the rage-energy high from a breakup and I am CAFFEINATED as FRICK.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated. As always, check out my tumblr, www.thor-20.tumblr.com , for updates and other general Marvel stuff.


	5. A New Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket’s tiny fingers skimmed over the pieces. Across the table, Steve looked vaguely nauseous, watching the rabbit work. Cybernetically-enhanced animals, Thor remembered, were not common on Earth. Or elsewhere. He’d never learned where Rocket was from, or what powers had made him who he was - but he could see scars ridging the skin beneath Rocket’s patchy fur, and the uneven humps on his spinal cord where the cybernetics were jammed in.
> 
> Rocket’s fingers began reassembling the gun. Steve swallowed and tore his eyes away.

Thor needed a drink. Of water, preferably - or even Midgardian soda - but he wouldn’t complain if he got something alcoholic.

It had been a couple of hours since they’d last heard from Clint’s pilot - or from Clint himself - but nobody was willing to leave. Other than the Dora Milaje and Shuri, there were only six of them in the room, huddled around one end of the conference table and doing their best not to fall asleep. 

Unless your name was Bruce. He had pillowed his head on his arms and promptly passed out. Even now, he was snoring softly, his breath huffing gently against his arm. Thor watched his friend out of the corner of his eye, doing his best not to stare; it had been ages since he’d seen Bruce truly relax. He was always tense, always alert. Thor tightly laced his hands together under the table to keep himself from smoothing the wrinkle between Bruce’s eyebrows.

“ _ Somebody _ looks constipated,” Rocket drawled.

Thor shot a glare at the creature in the seat next to him. Rocket either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Under the curious (and slightly terrified) gazes of the others, he disassembled his giant gun and meticulously cleaned each of the parts, carefully arranging them on the conference table. “ _ Somebody  _ looks… busy,” Thor muttered, unable to come up with a proper retort.

Rocket huffed, polishing a small gear. “Ain’t cleaned this in a while,” he said quietly. “Figured I could go without, until I fell in the river earlier. Water ain’t good for guns.”

“I… suppose,” Thor said.

“Yeah.”

Rocket’s tiny fingers skimmed over the pieces. Across the table, Steve looked vaguely nauseous, watching the rabbit work. Cybernetically-enhanced animals, Thor remembered, were not common on Earth. Or elsewhere. He’d never learned where Rocket was from, or what powers had made him who he was - but he could see scars ridging the skin beneath Rocket’s patchy fur, and the uneven humps on his spinal cord where the cybernetics were jammed in. 

Rocket’s fingers began reassembling the gun. Steve swallowed and tore his eyes away.

There was a soft click from Shuri’s end of the table. “ _ Your majesty,”  _ said the voice of their pilot.

Everyone jumped, staring at Shuri and her array of holograms. “Yes, Xoliswa?” Shuri said calmly.

“ _ We’re safe. The hole in the hull was patched successfully, and everyone is okay. _ ”

“ _ Second that.” _

Clint’s voice came over the intercom. Thor breathed out - he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.  _ “Sorry about the wait, guys, I got a little banged up in the back,”  _ he said. It sounded as if he was smiling. “ _ Might have passed out when we - ooh, is that coffee? _ ”

Natasha and Steve looked at each other, barely managing to stifle their laughs. Shuri, a teenager through and through, rolled her eyes.  _ “Yes, it is,”  _ Xoliswa said slowly. “ _ I suggest that you take a break, though. You’ve had a long journey -” _

_ “Nah, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until we get to Wakanda,”  _ Clint said.  _ “One hour-long powernap is enough for me. _ ”

A dog barked in the background. Thor raised his eyebrows.  _ “One sec, Lucky!”  _ Clint called, presumably away from the microphone. “ _ Seriously, can I have some?” _

_ “If you insist, Mr. Barton. Help yourself.” _

“Xoliswa,” Shuri softly interjected. “All is well? Did you manage to get a glimpse of what hit you?”

_ “Unfortunately not,”  _ Xoliswa replied. In the background, Thor heard Clint ask in an incredulous whisper if the travel cup was made of vibranium. The pilot whispered to him,  _ “It is, yes. Presumably,”  _ she said, returning to the microphone,  _ “the projectile fell out when we rolled. I’ll check the cabin security footage when I can, to see what it was.” _

Shuri nodded slowly. “Great. Have a safe flight,” she said.

_ “Thank you, Your Majesty.” _

The pilot ended their transmission. “Thank God, he’s alive,” Bruce murmured into his elbow.

“Yeah,” Natasha said. Her shoulders slumped a bit, and she leaned back in her chair. Through the windows, the Wakandan sun began to set, golden light slashing through her pale blonde hair. “Five for six. We’re looking good.”

Steve cringed, folding over into his chair. “Five for… what?” Thor said. “What do you -”

Then he realized. It had taken him hours to notice, but he finally did.

Tony Stark wasn’t there. If he had been, all the original Avengers would be present.

Rhodes twisted his head until his neck popped softly. “Tony went off-planet,” he said, answering Thor’s unfinished question. “Went after Strange and the Spider-kid. Haven’t heard from him since.”

Silence fell - cold, angry, afraid. Of all people, Thor would have guessed that Tony would be here: defending Earth from his tower, helping where he could, killing where he had to. Last he knew of the man, he’d said he was going to “retire,” but Thor knew that it would never happen. Warriors never retired; they always fought, though the battlefields changed. Of all people, he would have stayed fighting on Earth. 

It made no sense. “Well, why wasn’t he with you all?” he asked. “To begin with? He should have come to Wakanda with you all.”

Rhodes shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even Shuri was silent, staring resolutely at anything that wasn’t Thor. This  _ definitely  _ wasn’t good. “Last time I was here, you were all friends, living on the Compound -”

“They broke up,” Bruce muttered. “Like the Beatles.”  _ They  _ what,  _ now? _

Rhodes snorted suddenly. Thor looked up. The man had an uncomfortable grin on his face. “Thor - a few things changed since the last time you were here,” he said curtly. “The Avengers split up over some legislative differences. That’s been resolved, but it was a hell of a shitshow, and… well. We’re trying to walk back from it.”

“The BBC came out with a docu-series on the Civil War last year,” Natasha said.

Bruce’s eyes slammed open. “ _ Civil War? _ ” he wheezed, sitting up.

“Like I said, hell of a shitshow,” Rhodes said. “We can give you the rundown later. Watch the BBC thing. We’ll fill you in on what it didn’t cover.”

Thor stared at him. A Civil War? The Avengers just…  _ turned  _ on each other? They were supposed to be a family - a team, a band of shieldbrothers - not warring  _ beasts _ . He slumped back in his chair. Everyone was watching him, or watching the windows for signs of a storm. Across the table, Steve barely moved, every line of his body tense.

Thor glanced around the table, trying not to look like he was scrutinizing everyone there. The others weren’t as tense as the Captain was; Rhodes and Natasha were almost relaxed, in fact. But Steve… 

He looked ready to run. Thor had seen that look on Loki’s face hundreds of times when they were young, when he hadn’t mastered the art of keeping his pranks secret and had accidentally let them slip. Just thinking of Loki made him queasy, and Thor focused on Steve, shoving every thought of his brother out of his mind.

The Captain straightened under his gaze. But he looked like a man facing down a firing squad.

Thor’s fingers itched for Stormbreaker’s handle.

Bruce reached for his arm. “Thor, not now,” he said softly. Thor tore his eyes from Steve and looked at his friend; the wrinkle of worry had become deeper, his brows furrowed over concerned eyes. His hand made contact with Thor’s arm, and sparks flew where their skin touched -

A great mass of orange sparks appeared above the table, widening into a portal. Wong strode through onto the table, looked around, and huffed, “Damn. Warm welcome. Sorry, I was aiming for the entrance hall.”

“Welcome back, Mr. Wong,” Steve said politely. Now that a whole person and a glowing portal of doom separated him from Thor, he seemed to have relaxed.

“Just Wong is fine,” the man said. He turned to the portal and tugged on air, and a couple of stacks of books came drifting through. Curious, Thor leaned to the left and peered through it. Beyond lay a massive room humming with golden energy: sigils, wards, mandalas, ribbons, so dense that the air practically swam with them. All were centered around a central pedestal with a curved, empty holder of some sort perched on it.

“Thor,” Bruce whispered. “You’re kinda… crushing my ribs.”

Thor realized that he was practically in Bruce’s lap and sat up quickly. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. 

Bruce waved a dismissive hand and leaned forward, making grabby hands at Wong’s stacks of books. Amused, Wong nudged them closer with a spell. “These,” the sorcerer announced to the room, “are exact copies of all the referenced books I could find in the Ancient One’s private collection, related to the ring. Appendixes and all. Nearly threw out my back bringing them here.”

“You floated ‘em here,” Rocket drawled. “Don’t be such a drama queen.” Wong gave him a stony look.

“Oh my God _ , annotated? _ ” Bruce muttered, squinting at one of the books. Natasha looked over his shoulder and cringed. “You’ve got to be shitting me, there’s no way she did  _ this  _ to perfect first editions of the  _ Lord of the Rings _ -”

“You’re saying,” Steve said, raising his eyebrows, “that the Ancient One’s reference materials are Tolkien’s original books?”

“Well…” Wong wiggled his hand back in forth, in the universal gesture of  _ sort of, yeah. _

“They’re annotated to hell and back,” Bruce said, skimming the pages. His eyes widened. “Jesus Christ, what kind of -”

Wong backed away into the portal. “Best of luck with those,” he said nonchalantly. “I haven’t had any luck with that language - nothing I’ve ever seen on Earth.” Rocket’s ears perked up. “I have to get back to the sanctum. Give me a call if you need anything.” 

And without further ado, he hopped back into the portal and closed it.

Rhodes stared at the space the portal had been occupying. “Wizards have phones?” he said numbly.

“Apparently,” Thor said. “Who knew - hey!”

Rocket had left his seat and crawled onto his lap to reach Bruce. One foot poked right into Thor’s junk, and he winced a bit. “Put it here, on the table,” the rabbit said in a low voice. Bruce complied, handling the book as if it was printed on butterfly wings. “Lemme get a look at those words - oh, hell no, that’s a lost cause,” he said immediately, waving a dismissive hand at the books.

“What are we looking at?” Steve asked, leaning across the table. Shuri grabbed one of the books and gently opened it, skimming the words.

“Looks like a bastard child of Nepalese, Korean, and Elvish itself,” Bruce said sourly, glowering at the text. “Bits and pieces of letters, all smashed into some… thing. Doesn’t help that her handwriting looks like a seismograph.” Thor looked down at the book, hoping that he’d be able to decipher the text written in the margins; the Allspeak spell worked relatively well on text. All he got for his troubles was a headache, and he looked away. 

Bruce added, “And there’s stuff I don’t recognize at all -”

“That’s Krylorian,” Rocket interrupted. His claw dragged over the yellowing paper, and tapped. “A Skrull accent mark. And that whole word is… well, half that word is in Galactic Basic. No. A letter.  _ Half _ a letter.”

“Great.”

“And that’s a piece of a Xandarian letter, I’d recognize it anywhere.” Rocket shifted slightly on Thor’s lap. Thor had the strange urge to scratch him behind his ears, but presumed that he wouldn’t take kindly to that.

Bruce heaved a giant sigh and slumped in his seat, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”

“No offense taken,” Shuri murmured, her gaze fixed on one of the books - one of the appendices, it looked like. She didn’t look happy either. “This is… a nightmare.”

“Some kind of code, maybe?” Steve suggested.

“Most likely,” Thor said sourly. He looked at the book on the table between him and Bruce. “Seems as though the Ancient One truly didn’t want my people to get their hands on the ring. A code is only fair, to hide the secret.”

“There’s no way we’re going to be able to piece this together on our own,” Shuri said darkly.

She gently closed her book and placed it on the table. “In about eighteen hours,” she said to the room, “I will have to attend an emergency meeting of the United Nations. I suggest that you all rest; we can tackle this tomorrow.”

Rhodey began, “How -”

“I will write a program,” Shuri said. “Rocket -” The cybernetic rabbit perked up at his name, ears twitching. “You mentioned several languages that you recognized in the text.”

“Bits and pieces,” Rocket hedged. “Literally.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow, I’d appreciate it if you give me copies of everything you know about the languages you recognize,” Shuri said. “Taking that with a database of Earth languages, we might be able to decipher this.”

She slid her chair back and stood up; the Dora Milaje grouped around her. Fiddling with some holograms projected from her bracelet, Shuri said, “I’ve given you all rooms in the west wing of the palace. Follow the captain or Romanoff if you need help.” 

The holograms disappeared with a twitch of her wrist. “Until tomorrow,” the young queen said. “See you later.” With that jaunty dismissal, she turned and strode from the room. The Dora Milage gathered the books from the conference table and carried them off.

In her absence, the room seemed swamped with shadow. Thor leaned on the table and hung his head. By the Norns, he was  _ tired,  _ but he was reluctant to leave and find a place to rest. It felt…

Sleep felt like giving up.

_ You should have gone for the head, _ the Titan had said, had the  _ audacity  _ to say. But Thor had gone for the  _ heart _ . If he’d had the power, he would have clawed through Thanos’s chest with his bare hands and torn out whatever shriveled lump there was beneath his ribs. He just wanted him to  _ feel. Feel that axe through your heart? Feel the pain, the burn, the twist and ache? Feel what  _ I _ felt when you slew my kinsmen and choked the life from my brother? _

But Thanos had felt nothing. While the abomination still lived without feeling the pain he’d caused the entire universe…

He couldn’t sleep knowing that Thanos went unpunished.

One by one, the others stood and left the conference room. After a hesitation, Bruce slowly stood up and followed them out, brushing a hand over Thor’s shoulder. Even Rocket hopped off Thor’s lap. Thor almost protested, not wanting to be completely alone, but the rabbit merely climbed into his own seat and began to reassemble his gun. Thor watched his fingers slot the pieces back together, as if it was second nature to him.

If Thor looked close enough, his tiny hands were shaking.

“ _ Dad?” _

Groot’s last word drifted through his mind. Damn that elective course. Something twisted deep in Thor’s chest, and he swiped a hand over his eyes.

Hell. He needed that ring, to set things right. It was his birthright, his  _ birthright  _ \- his last link to whatever home he had.

What more could he lose?

* * *

Kraglin Obfonteri was a sissy.

Eleven hours had passed since they’d started the jump to Terra, and Nebula was about to crawl out of her skin from sheer boredom. She stalked the empty halls of the  _ Hammerhand,  _ over and over, until she’d memorized every single nasty stain or dented piece of metal. More than once, she’d bumped into members of Kraglin’s skeleton crew; they were too tired or too scared to pick fights with her, which was unfortunate. She might cause some serious property damage if something didn’t happen on this garbage ship.

By Kraglin’s estimates, they had about 30 more hours until they reached Terra. By Nebula’s estimates, if Kraglin decided to take a fucking risk for once and crank the ship up to full jump speed, they’d get there in seven. Maybe he was too scared of his junk ship falling apart. The Hammerhand looked like it’d been cobbled together from every century-old ship in the galaxy. Probably was.

They just needed to get to Terra as fast as possible. Nebula needed to unload Stark and go. She had a hunch as to where Thanos might have gone after he got the stones, and hopefully that gauntlet had taken enough energy out of him. As she strode down one of the  _ Hammerhand’s _ dozens of halls, her fingers skated over the knives zipped into her pockets.

Thanos was going down.

She just needed to get Stark off her hands.

In the eleven hours that they’d been on Kraglin’s ship, Tony Stark hadn’t made a single appearance. Nebula suspected that he and Kraglin had gotten drunk; drinking the stuff that Ravagers liked was like chugging jet fuel. She’d expected him to be tired after the past day and a half, but not  _ this  _ tired. 

She passed the room where Stark and Kraglin had been drinking; the clock next to the door flickered, and she gave it a suspicious glance. According to the clock - which was synced to Galactic Standard Time - they had only spent two galactic hours on Titan. But it had definitely been longer than that. Did time run differently on that planet? Maybe the cataclysm on Titan had affected more than just its gravity.

Or maybe the Terran sorcerer had done something with the Time Stone to make it so. Nebula wrinkled her nose and continued on.

The second door on her right was wide open. Nebula glanced inside and saw Stark passed out on the bunk. The room stank of booze and old feet, which might have been the fault of the last resident, but she wouldn’t bet on it. Stark lay on his back, covered by a surprisingly clean blanket; his head was turned away from her.

His chest rose and fell gently. Nebula approached his bunk, not bothering to make her footsteps lighter. Still, the man didn’t stir. “Stark,” she said.

Nothing. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Get up,” she snapped. “You need to eat.” The muscles of his neck corded slightly, but he didn’t open his eyes. Nebula squinted suspiciously and reached for a metal knick-knack on the bedside table.

_ Clang! _

She dropped it on the ground, and Stark’s eyes slammed open, gasping something that sounded almost like a name. A spastic twitch seized his body, and he tried to sit up. He couldn’t seem to; his body slumped back on the mattress, limbs twitching, and he struggled to breathe. “Not again,” Nebula muttered, yanking the blanket off of him.

An incoherent, angry snarl escaped her. The mattress beneath Tony was soaked with blood on the left side, where his stab wound had opened.  _ Again.  _ Damn it, she couldn’t let this Terran bleed out on her. He was probably one of the only people who had a shot at killing Thanos, and Terra… hell, they needed all the help they could get.

As Tony’s chest heaved, Nebula slammed her hand on the intercom button next to the bed. “ _ Kraglin!” _ she screamed into it. Beyond, she could hear her voice echoing throughout the ship, a shrieking siren. “Get to Stark’s room, now!”

Kraglin was closer than she thought; he skidded into the room, nearly crashing into the doorframe in his haste. “What the hell’s happening?” he barked.

Nebula simply pointed at Stark, who was now shivering uncontrollably. Now that Kraglin was in the room, she could tell that Stark’s skin was unnaturally grey compared to his. Kraglin’s eyes bugged out. “What the hell did you drink last night?” she said coldly.

“Uh - A’askavarian moonshine,” Kraglin said.

Nebula felt like bashing her head into the wall. She settled for punching Kraglin in the face. Kraglin managed to duck, eyes wide, and her punch hit his fin instead, sending it flying. “ _ A’askavarian -  _ you dumb son of a bitch, the spores in that are  _ toxic  _ to anything that doesn’t have at least two livers to process it,” she snarled. “Terrans only have one!”

“Oh.”

“ _ Oh?  _ That’s all you have to say for yourself?” she said, clenching her fists again. Kraglin backed away. “You’ve gone and killed him! Not to mention that stab wound, it’s probably  _ infected  _ now, because you never clean your disgusting-ass  _ ship - _ Now get medical supplies or something in here, and  _ fix what you broke!” _

Kraglin’s arm convulsed. Nebula stared at him. “What was that?”

He scowled and turned his back, picking up the fin. “Reminded me of Yondu for a minute there,” he muttered. 

Oh. He’d almost given her a  _ Ravager salute.  _ Damn, he really was a sissy. “Don’t compare me to that snaggle-toothed moron,” she snarled. 

“No problem, chrome-dome,” Kraglin sassed back.

Nebula glared at him; he shrugged and put his fin back on. As he left the room, whistling jauntily, his arrow lingered behind him and sketched out a very clear  _ Kiss My Ass _ , before zipping off.

Nebula groaned and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was about to lose it. At this point, she was tempted to just let the Terran die. Sure, he was smart enough to get a portal going and get them off-planet, and he was apparently smart enough to build his own robotic armor, but one more wisecrack from Kraglin and she was checking out. She was donezo. She was going to hop on an escape pod and jet straight into the nearest star.

On the bed, Stark gasped wetly and passed out. 

Moments later, Kraglin raced back, his arms full of medical supplies. He elbowed Nebula out of the way and knelt next to the bunk. She crossed her arms and watched him. “What are those?” she asked suspiciously.

“Antibacterials,” he said crisply. She raised an eyebrow. Now it seemed like he was taking this seriously. The Xandarian just kept surprising her. “Should work on the mold spores.” He prepped the hypospray and jabbed it into some exposed muscle above Stark’s collarbone. While waiting for the injection to finish, he rummaged around in the first-aid kit and plucked out a pair of tweezers. “Disinfect these,” he ordered.

“With what?”

“I don’t know,  _ disinfectant,  _ maybe?”

Nebula held back a sigh and grabbed some all-purpose antiseptic. A better idea would be disinfecting the tweezers with heat, but fire was dangerous on ships, and the blowtorch built into her left arm would probably evaporate the tweezers into slag. As she coated the tweezers in antiseptic, she said in a low voice, “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yep,” Kraglin replied, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite. “Here. Tweezers.” Nebula jabbed them at the captain. He snatched them started fishing around in the wound, pulling out pieces of dried glue. The stiff layers had fractured, and pieces were worming further into Tony’s gut. 

“Do you think you’ll be able to save him?” she said.

Kraglin pursed his mouth and pulled out a piece of dried glue the size of his finger. “Damn it, I hope so,” he muttered. “He’s survived this far. I’ll shank myself with my own arrow if I’m the reason he dies. Get me a knife.”

The non sequitur threw her off. “What?” she said.

“A knife. Heat it.” Kraglin held out a hand expectantly, his other hand pulling pieces of shattered glue from Tony’s wound. “The spores are keepin’ his blood from clotting,” he said curtly. “We have to cauterize it.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Nebula said bluntly.

“It’s the only option we have,” Kraglin snapped. He rummaged through the kit for another hypospray and gently injected it around Stark’s wound. A local anesthetic, then. “Ship doctor was dusted. Ain’t got no other options, ‘til we get to Terra and people who actually  _ know  _ how to heal Terrans can take care of him.”

Kraglin took a deep breath and cursed, standing up. “Hell,” he muttered. “We gotta speed this up. Keep him steady, cauterize the wound for me. I’m gonna get the ship to full speed. Just…” He strode backwards out of the room. “Good luck,” he said awkwardly, sprinting away.

On the bed before her, Tony let out a faint moan. Nebula watched him, faintly disgusted. The light on his chest threw his face into gruesome shadow, like seeing his face underwater.

Overhead, the intercom crackled, Kraglin’s voice signalling that they were going to speed up. Nebula twisted her left wrist and bent her hand back; the hand folded back, revealing a blowtorch. She quickly prepared the knife and moved closer to Stark’s side.

As she drew closer, he seemed to tense. His eyes darted back and forth beneath his eyelids, and Nebula knew that he had heard them talking - he was still alert. Still alive. She gritted her teeth and lowered the hot knife to his wound. “Sorry, Stark, this is going to hurt like a bitch,” she muttered. 

The ship lurched; metal groaned, and the endless tunnel of jump space howled around them. Hoping that the local anesthetic would do its job, she lowered the smoking knife to Tony’s wounds.

He made no sound. It was as if he couldn’t find the energy even to scream.

* * *

_ The fire consumed him. _

_ He felt his mortal body convulsing beyond him, as the fire ravaged his body - every fiber of his soul shrieked in agony, and it was as if something had seized those fibers and  _ tugged.

_ And the lidless eye’s pupil widened, lengthened - until a figure strode forth from it, tall and terrible in its majesty. He shivered before it, and tried to back away - _

**_Cower not before your new lord._ **

_ With one last fierce tug, the world tore around him - _

  
  


* * *

The door hissed open. Heavy footsteps approached.

He cringed, retreating further into his chair. Thanos and his Black Order had been gone for what felt like an eternity, collecting the stones. All of them. He knew that the Titan had succeeded when his guards crumbled to dust. He had spent hours waiting for himself to vanish, but that moment never came. The last freedom he would ever have was gone.

The Titan’s lumbering footsteps drew closer. He desperately hoped that Thanos had no more use for him, and would simply put him out of his misery -

“Ah. Taneleer Tivan.”

The way Thanos said his name made him shudder. A new vein of malevolence threaded through the Titan’s voice; it echoed in his soul.  _ Something has happened to him,  _ Taneleer thought, hands clenching on his chair. His restraints rattled as he shifted. Using the stones must have changed him in some way.

“Yeah,” he croaked anyway. "That's me."

The Titan hummed dismissively and came closer. Taneleer snuck a glance at him and wanted to hide his face again, though he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. Thanos was wreathed in shadow, a dark mantle of shadow that seemed to have its own… its own  _ sentience.  _

“I have it on good authority,” the Titan rumbled, “that you have experience in…  _ collecting  _ things, shall we say.” That statement set off alarms in Taneleer's brain. Thanos knew him already - he knew all about his trade, he knew he had the Reality Stone. So why -

The Titan moved closer, and Taneleer saw the gauntlet gleaming on his hand -

Empty.

Suddenly he understood. “No,” he whispered, though he knew it was futile. “No, I can’t - I don’t know where they might have gone, I don’t know anything -”

Then Thanos's eyes opened. Taneleer’s voice died in his throat.

The Titan’s eyes glowed with flame.

“You’re not Thanos,” he breathed.  _Oh, hell._

The Titan - or whatever wore his face - smirked. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.” He raised his hand, and Taneleer’s restraints fell off. He blinked.  _ What? _

He had little time to savor his freedom, as the thing in the Titan’s body seized the front of his shirt, pulling him up to eye level. “Find your brothers,” he commanded. “Summon them here.”

The flames in the Titan’s eyes grew brighter, so bright that Taneleer could almost feel their heat on his face. 

“We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Comments appreciated on this one, I feel like this story is going WAY too fast. Might need a pacing change soon, so don't be disappointed if the next few chapters don't have exposition. Until next time.


	6. In Dark Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pardon me.”
> 
> The voice wasn’t a total surprise. He’d heard the door opening, felt the soft whoosh of displaced air ruffling his fur. “Consider yourself pardoned,” he drawled, not looking back. “Whaddya want?”
> 
> “I merely wish to escort you to your room,” the voice said calmly. Female. Accent. The faint click of armor plates. Probably one of them bald chicks with the freaky spears. 
> 
> Rocket turned around and saw he was right. “You one of them bald chicks with the freaky spears?” he asked, just to be sure.
> 
> She raised one eyebrow and said coolly, “I go by Okoye.”

Well, he didn’t _have_ to. But he damn well felt like it.

If that didn’t sum up most of Rocket’s life up to this point, he didn’t know what did. Steal Anulax batteries? Impulse. Build a bomb from Peter’s broken blaster? Why the fuck not? Strip down his shock rifle to the bare bones, until it was nothing but hundreds of gears and wires on the table? Didn’t _have_ to.

Eh. Technically. He had to do _something_ to distract himself, so he wouldn’t claw his damn eyes out from… boredom.

Call it boredom.

Yeah.

Rocket picked up part of the barrel and held it to his eye, squinting at the room and its empty seats through it. “Lookin’ good,” he muttered. He gave it a quick buff on his fur and slotted it into place, twisting it back and forth. “C’mon, get in there, you little ingrate,” he said, bashing it in with the end of a screwdriver. Not exactly the best idea, but it would work. Wasn’t planning on selling it anytime soon; he didn’t have to put more work into it than was absolutely necessary for him to kick ass.

He’s good at fixing shit. That’s just what he does. Even if he wrecks it himself - _especially_ when he does - he does his damndest to fix it. Unless Quill starts on it before he can, then it’s definitely off his hands. ‘Cause he can’t fix everything. Rocket snarled and whacked the stubborn piece with the screwdriver, and it clicked in.

Can’t fix everything, huh. They could’ve. They had their chances. What if - what if, instead of handin’ that Orb over to the Nova Corps, they swiped it? Pried that stone out, found a place to hide it. Used it, even. Would that’ve kept it outta Thanos’s hands?

Rocket shook his head furiously, ears flopping. No use thinking on the past. Not when it was still too fresh.

“ _Dad?”_

He gritted his teeth. Twisted his neck. Set to work.

The last few pieces lay stark against the light wood of the table. Rocket picked up the sight and rolled it between his fingers. It was cracked along one side. He huffed and clamped it onto the top of the gun. The cybernetics whirred along his spine, and he winced slightly. The ones down at the bottom were seizin’ up a little. The ones that force him to stand. He felt like an old man - well, that’s a lie, ain’t it? He’s no man. He’s a made thing, not a _man._ But Rocket decided the sentiment still stood.

Two pieces left. Almost done. Just a few more. He was itching to break it down again, and build it up again, just to keep his hands moving, moving, moving -

“Pardon me.”

The voice wasn’t a total surprise. He’d heard the door opening, felt the soft _whoosh_ of displaced air ruffling his fur. “Consider yourself pardoned,” he drawled, not looking back. “Whaddya want?”

“I merely wish to escort you to your room,” the voice said calmly. Female. Accent. The faint click of armor plates. Probably one of them bald chicks with the freaky spears.

Rocket turned around and saw he was right. “You one of them bald chicks with the freaky spears?” he asked, just to be sure.

She raised one eyebrow and said coolly, “I go by Okoye.”

...Okay, then. That tone was familiar. Hopefully she wouldn’t stab him with her freaky spear. Friendly fire and all that. Technically he was an ally of theirs, now. Rocket merely hummed and turned back to his gun, slotting the last pieces of the rifle into their places.

“Everyone else has left to find their rooms.”

“Believe it or not, I noticed,” Rocket shot back.

He heard her sigh. “Unless you have a better place to be,” Okoye said, “you should get some rest.”

“Do I look like I need rest?”

A pause. “They call dark circles ‘raccoon-eyes’ for a reason,” the woman said dryly.

 _Oh, for crying out loud._ Rocket finished reassembling the shock rifle and holstered it on his back, slipping out of the chair. He gave the woman an unimpressed look. She gave him one right back. He could appreciate that. No gawking, no frowning, no holy balls, that’s a fucking talking raccoon, goddamn. Just a bit of weariness, exhaustion, and overall done-ness.

Now he knew who she reminded him of. Give her green skin and long curly hair, and you’d have a dead ringer for Gamora. Goddamn, the galaxy was full of scary women.

“So,” he said, shifting the gun on his back. “Lead the way.” Okoye gave him a faint smile and tilted her head towards the open doors.

They took a left and immediately strolled across a bridge, hanging high over an eerily silent atrium. Their footsteps echoed. Okoye kept a pace that Rocket’s much shorter legs could easily match. Didn’t seem to be doing it on purpose, though. Maybe she was just tired. Rocket gave the atrium an appraising look and said offhandedly, “Guess Wakanda’s pretty snazzy, for a Terran dump.”

Okoye’s steps faltered briefly, though she walked on. “Indeed.”

Okay, cold voice, red alert, time to backtrack. “Not too shabby, though,” he allowed. “Holograms, them snazzy shields, nanobot suits. Just a bit behind some of the galaxy.”

“Hm.”

“Some, not all. Rest of ‘em? Their personal motto: if it ain’t broke, break it, then sell it at double the price. Galaxy’s a fucking junk heap. Eons of dirt and rust over everything.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Yeah,” Rocket said, as they walked off the bridge and into a hallway lined with doors. A few were open, soft voices filtering through them. “But, uh… where’s Kevin Bacon?”

“Uh, what?”

He looked up at her. Both of Okoye’s eyebrows were raised. “Kevin Bacon,” he said flatly. “Supreme Overlord. Please tell me Quill was lying about that.”

Okoye’s mouth twitched. “Absolutely,” she said.

“Oh, thank fuck.”

She chuckled and opened a door. Inside was a person-sized room, with all sorts of person-sized things. Fucking wonderful. Though he could tell a snazzy room when he saw one. “Wakanda is not like the rest of the world,” Okoye said. “In fact, the world outside is rather behind. We have only just joined the outside world, after being closed for decades.”

Rocket lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Tough luck, huh,” he said, walking into the room. “Moment you open borders, you get fuckin’ trashed. Ya got giant lizards?”

Okoye blinked. “Pardon?”

“Giant lizards. Heard from a Kronan that Terra was overrun with giant lizards once. Got any of those?”

“Not anymore.” Okoye leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and added, “Not unless you count Jurassic Park.”

“My ass is what?”

The woman shook her head. If he didn’t know better, Rocket would think she was annoyed, but if she was anything like Gamora she was just amused. “While you’re here,” Rocket said, hopping onto the bed and crossing his legs, “I got a few questions.”

“Sure, fire away.”

“What’s a raccoon?”

She gave him a _look._ “You are one,” she said slowly.

“Nah, _I’m_ not,” Rocket said. “I’m me. Ain’t no thing like me, _except_ me. Though apparently I look a hell of a lot like a d’ast raccoon. Just want to know what it _is_ I’m supposed to look like.”

Okoye’s _look_ deepened. Rocket didn’t know what he saw on her face. It sure wasn’t pity, which he was damn grateful for, but it wasn’t compassion either. Understanding? Hell, no way that people here would be able to understand. Terrans didn’t have anything like Halfworld here. Didn’t treat their humies like experiments.

Didn’t they?

A metal arm. Cold, unforgiving eyes, behind wild long hair. That ain’t normal, not for humies. For Nebula, maybe, but not for a Terran.

Maybe they did know.

Okoye suddenly moved towards him, and Rocket jerked. “It’s alright,” she said, holding up her hands. Her freaky spear leaned in the corner. She picked up a slim tablet and handed it to him. “I assume you’re familiar with the concept of databases,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

 _Seen ‘em. Hacked ‘em. Been there, done that._ “Yeah, sure,” Rocket said out loud. He tapped the screen and blinked as a word appeared, each letter a different color. “The fuck’s a google?”

“A search engine for the Internet: a massive international database, interactive and completely user-friendly.”

“How massive you talking?”

Okoye gently seized the tablet and tapped a bar beneath the word Google. She typed a few words, skimmed a page, and hummed thoughtfully. “Apparently, the internet has 4.5 billion pages,” she said. _Holy hell,_ Rocket thought. Not the biggest digital library he’d heard of, but still… Sheesh. Okoye passed the tablet back to him. “Just type in whatever you want to search, and it’ll give you results to look over.”

“Cool, cool,” Rocket murmured, shuffling backwards to lean against the pillows. Damn. All the world’s information at his fingertips. Wonder how long it would take him to hack it. As he perused the tablet, trying to figure out how to tap it without scratching the screen with his claws, Okoye quietly slipped out and closed the door.

Using the tablet wasn’t as much of a shitshow as he thought it would be. Rocket already had a feel for the language - it was all in standard Terran English, though it was a little wordier than what he was used to. Quill taught him the basics of it once in a Guna prison, when… well, that’s a longer story than he had time to remember. Still. When they got back on the ship, he was curious enough that he got Quill to teach him some more.

Quill had only been speakin’ English for eight or nine years, though, so he couldn’t teach him much. But it could work. Rocket wasn’t an expert, but he could get by. Burrowing into the pillows, his gun tucked in next to him, he carefully typed in, **what is -**

A few suggested searches popped up. Rocket’s whiskers twitched as he read them. “Hmph,” he muttered, typing the rest of his search. Some of those looked interesting. He’d look at **frappuccino** next. And maybe he’d look up David Bowie.

Once he was done figuring out what the fuck a raccoon was.

* * *

After leaving the conference room, Bruce hastily retreated to the room where he’d dumped his stuff, when they first landed in Wakanda. There wasn’t much in there - spare clothes, reading glasses, a beat-up Nalgene he’d swiped from Strange’s sanctum. All dumped haphazardly on the bed. He slunk into the room - almost expecting to be kicked out, the last time he’d been in a Terran room this fancy was Stark Tower - and gave the bed a woeful look. God, he wanted nothing more than to fall into it and sleep for a decade. Maybe cry.

Definitely cry. After a day like today, he’d earned it.

Thor approached the door across from Bruce’s and knocked. Bruce watched him, amused. The god of thunder listened sheepishly at the door. “Anyone in there?” Bruce heard him whisper. “No? Alright.” Thor flung the door open - it bounced off the wall - and strode into his room, gently placing Stormbreaker on the bed like it was a child.

He then faceplanted onto the bed next to Stormbreaker. Bruce struggled not to smile. He picked up the tablet on the bedside table and crossed the hall to Thor’s room. “You okay?” he said softly.

Thor grunted into the pillows. Bruce took that as a yes and perched on the end of Thor’s bed. He took a deep breath, so deep he felt that strain in his abs twinge, and sighed. “I’m going to look up the Civil War. Wanna look?”

The mattress lurched as Thor reluctantly sat up - then creaked. He’d lain down again. “Yeah, alright. Just - tell me what you find.”

“I see how it is.”

“Hmm. Sorry.”

“It was a joke,” Bruce said. His fingers flew over the tablet. He understood if Thor didn’t want to participate in his research. (If trawling Wikipedia could be called research.) It had been a hell of a day. He clicked the first Wikipedia link he could find. And he read.

And read.

And _read._

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he breathed, after what felt like an eternity. “Thor. _Thor,”_ he said urgently, shaking Thor’s ankle.

“Mbrsgh - _what?_ ” the god said thickly, sitting up. He scooted to the edge of the bed and looked over Bruce’s shoulder. “What did you find?”

Bruce pointed at the screen and explained. “Okay. So, after Sokovia -” Which still felt like _yesterday_ to him, but apparently it had only been two years. He forced himself to keep going. “After Sokovia, the United Nations decided that we fucked up so much, superpowered beings needed to be kept in check. So they came up with a… oh, Jesus, a _registration act_ to keep tabs on all the superheroes in the world,” he said feverishly, squinting at the screen.

That - that freaked him the fuck out. The last thing he wanted was to be under the government’s thumb. Like before. Even now, just thinking about it, his heart throbbed in his ears and he could sense tremors in his hands. He could never go back. Never. Not while Ross was still alive -

Ross. Bruce’s eyes widened.

There was his name, right there, next to the link to the Sokovia Accords embedded in the first paragraph: _The_ _Sokovia Accords , _ _drafted and backed by_ _General Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross_ _..._

He was glad the Hulk was sulking, because normally the Big Guy would be destroying this swanky room in the blink of an eye...

“A registration act?” Thor said softly.

Thor could fucking read it himself, if he kept repeating what Bruce had said, Bruce thought angrily. But when Thor gently nudged him with his elbow, Bruce realized that his friend had noticed his tension. He was distracting him. Okay, that was good. “Yeah,” he huffed, returning to the tablet. “A sign or retire kind of deal. Either agree to the U.N.’s rules or be forced into retirement. Don’t sign, you’re considered a fugitive of the law.”

His brow furrowed. “Does that make us fugitives?” he asked Thor.

The god shrugged. “Maybe.” He grinned suddenly. “Fugitives, huh?” he said cheerfully. “That’d be cool. Having adventures, running from the law…”

Bruce scoffed. “We aren't Bonnie and Clyde _,_ Thor,” he said, though he felt the corners of his mouth twitching. “It’s serious.”

“I know. Sorry.”

Though… Bruce scratched his chin and frowned at the tablet. They probably weren’t fugitives - obviously, what was left of the Avengers was allowed to regroup, to go fight in Wakanda. Unless they all just went against the rules? What fucking good would the bullshit laws be when an alien was attacking?

He kept reading.

“Okay. So the Accords. Not a hot item,” he mused. “Two main sides to this dumpster fire. Tony seemed to be going with the Accords out of… guilt, it looks like.” Bruce winced. From what the footnotes said, Tony had gone and blamed the whole Sokovia mess on himself. It kept Bruce himself out of the line of fire, which he was grateful for, but… He saw the embedded pictures of Tony at press conferences, and he looked like absolute _shit_ from stress. If only he hadn’t done a runner and left Tony there to deal with this himself...

He cleared his throat. “And, uh… Steve went against them. For some reason.” Thor shifted a bit; Bruce looked over and saw him frowning deeply. “It gets a bit murky. Apparently he was going to sign them, but then - shit, someone impersonating his friend Barnes killed T’Challa’s dad, and the Avengers were called in to bring him in? And he went… rogue?”

Bruce shook his head and kept scrolling. There were a few paragraphs devoted to a fight in a Berlin airport. “Jesus Christ...” He ran a hand through his too-short hair and sputtered, “This wasn’t a _Civil War,_ this was a fucking fistfight in a 7-11 parking lot! Over - over…”

The words were lined up in his mind, but he was so damn exasperated with his old teammates that he couldn’t speak them. Miscommunication, he thought. Mistrust and shitty bureaucracy. Because, judging from the speculation in the BBC documentary Nat was talking about (quoted at length in the Wikipedia article), that’s what it boiled down to. Steve didn’t share his experiences with HYDRA because he didn’t trust Tony. And Tony didn’t talk to Steve about his past and fears because he didn’t trust Steve. Then it all fucked up and nobody could salvage it.

But there were holes.

Something else had happened - a big gray space in time, between what Wikipedia said was a strike against HYDRA’s backup Winter Soldiers and Tony’s return to New York. Something that sent the Avengers into a true death spiral; something that made Tony grit his teeth at the mere _mention_ of Steve’s name; something that made Steve…

Afraid.

That’s what he’d been, sitting across from Thor. Afraid.

What had he done?

“I think the Accords were a good idea.”

Bruce froze. He slowly turned to face Thor. “You what,” he said flatly.

Thor looked back, completely serious. “They were a good idea, in theory,” he said. “Look - Sokovia was a disaster. Something like that can’t happen again -”

“Yeah, yeah it was,” Bruce interrupted. _Even though it kind of just did, in Wakanda._ Somehow he couldn’t stop frowning. “It killed hundreds of people, and - and apparently the crackpot who actually killed the old King of Wakanda lost someone to that. I get it, it’s bad.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily be subject to those laws,” Thor allowed, gesturing at himself. “Alien, and all that. But I’d sign on for their peace of mind. It’s diplomacy, Bruce.”

He glanced away for a brief moment; his one good eye seemed contemplative, even a little sad. “Maybe once,” he said softly, “when I was less mature, quicker to anger… I would have sided with Steve. But I know the danger power poses to those who cannot safely wield it. I would see it contained, however possible.”

His eyes landed on Bruce’s. Bruce continued to stare, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If Thor had been on Earth, he would have sided with the Accords. With _Ross._

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I _know_ the ‘danger power poses’ - _I am_ that danger,” he hissed, jabbing himself in the chest with his finger. Thor frowned; it looked like was going to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but Bruce was just too tense to let him. “They tried to keep me down, but it just made the Hulk stronger -”

He sighed and turned away from Thor. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand,” he said, staring awkwardly at the floor. “Control is necessary. But this was never the way to go about it. There’s a difference between what’s right and what the government wants. Always is.”

Thor was silent. “You’re right, I don’t understand,” he said softly. And Bruce realized that he really didn’t. Thor had never been on Earth long enough to learn about Bruce’s past; he’d been gallivanting around the galaxy, or in Asgard, unless he was needed for a mission. He had never gotten to actually talk to Bruce about how the Hulk came to be - like Tony had, one memorable night after the Mandarin incident, when they swapped sob stories like trading cards and dozed off on Tony’s penthouse couch.

Thor had never been close enough to know the truth. Of _course_  he wouldn’t be saying these things to him, if he knew Bruce’s history with Ross. If he knew Bruce’s past _at all._

“Bruce.”

He looked at Thor, resisting the urge to sulk. “Yeah.”

Thor took a deep breath, hesitated. “I - I know you probably have your reasons for not liking the Accords,” he said carefully, “but - I still think they’re a good idea. I’ve dealt with Malekith, and Hela - hell, even Ultron - and to me, If something with powers can be controlled… then it should be, by any means necessary, to save lives.”

_Any means necessary._

He saw white lab coats, bright lights, _blood_ -

_“Keep the monster secure. For the next round, try 170 cc’s -”_

Bruce gritted his teeth and stood up. The tablet clattered to the ground; Thor made a half-hearted grab for it, but it slipped through his fingers. His mind blazed with paranoia-fueled nightmares, scenes from the lab at Culver interspersed with them. Any means necessary? _Any_? “Well, looks like dear old dad had that same philosophy, but fell a little short,” he snapped. “I bet all your dead people probably wished that he’d kept a tighter lid on your sister.”

Silence fell. And Thor just _stared._

 _Oh, fuck._ Some distant part of Bruce’s brain warned him that he’d gone too far, that he’d hit way below the belt, that he’d really stepped in it now.

Before him, Thor gritted his teeth. “Yeah,” he snarled. “Yeah, they probably did. Just like I wished that my sister didn’t destroy my world, kill my father in front of me, and slaughter my childhood friends. And that Thanos didn’t kill my brother and what was left of my people - and that Dark Elves didn’t kill my mother - but -”

He broke off in a harsh, grating laugh that held no warmth. “What do you know about that?” Thor choked out. “Tell me, what do _you_ know of loss?”

They weren’t even talking about the Accords anymore. It didn’t have to be a debate. But something in Bruce’s chest, so often crushed down by the Hulk, blazed to life - a deeper, darker rage, a _trigger -_

And it stopped.

All the anger rushed out of him, leaving a void. Emptiness. Bruce nearly keeled over, the feeling was so unfamiliar. Normally that anger would have triggered the Hulk, would have filled him, fueled him. But this time, nothing.

And standing before Thor, a sea of tranquility opposing his towering grief and rage, Bruce spoke before he realized he did.

“Loss, huh,” he whispered.

One last crackle of lightning, along Thor’s eyebrow, before it all faded away. Something in Bruce’s face must have given Thor pause. There was something in his eyes - well, his _eye -_ that Bruce couldn’t recognize. He couldn’t recognize anything - just the words within him, spilling out, without any control over them.

He spoke slowly, softly. “What do _I_ know of loss. Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I know loss. But of course, you _have_ to know it better than I do. So tell me - tell me about the time your father was so drunk that he could barely see.”

_Bruce, shut up, shut up, stop TALKING -_

“Just tell me,” he continued, “about when your mother was so, so afraid for her life and tried to leave with you, but - but she wasn’t fast enough -”

Before him, the color slowly bled from Thor’s face.

“ -and her hands were shaking too much to unlock the car -”

Thor breathed, “Bruce -”

“Tell me,” he said over him, “about when your father grabbed her head and smashed it into the pavement, over and over, until there was blood running into the gutter and - and you had to _watch,_ because you’re _too weak_ to protect her -”

“Bruce!”

Thor’s voice hit Bruce like a punch to the chest, and he staggered back. A fog lifted from him, and he looked at Thor - _really_ looked at him. “Oh, god,” he whispered.

Thor looked like he was about to cry.

Only then did he realize what he’d done. “Jesus Christ, I wasn’t - I didn’t mean to say any of that,” Bruce babbled, staring at Thor. “We were - We’re both tired, we just watched half the universe die, and here I am being a tragic idiot instead of getting rest or something - we aren’t even talking about the Accords anymore -”

There was an apology coming. It was in there somewhere, and Bruce desperately wanted to pull it out and give it to Thor, because he’d _never_ seen him look like that, and knowing that it was _his fault_ just…

Thor sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

That seemed to break the spell. “I’m sorry,” Bruce breathed, and practically ran back to his room. He didn’t look back once.

* * *

Behind a statue outside Thor’s room, Steve, Natasha and Rhodey sat in stunned silence. “Jesus,” Rhodey breathed.

“Yeah,” Steve said. He was dizzy with lack of sleep and exertion, but what he’d heard still sent his mind spinning. “That was…”

“Not what we expected.” Natasha slunk out from behind the statue, making sure to stay away from Thor’s open door. They had been listening in to make sure the two were alright; Rhodey had predicted - correctly - that they might have different philosophies about the Accords, and they were prepared to intervene or call the Dora Milaje in case fists started flying.

But they’d never expected to hear Bruce’s story.

“Never speak of this again,” Natasha said to the two men. Her eyes promised murder if that ever came to pass. Steve would sooner kill himself than spill what he’d heard Bruce say. “We heard nothing.”

Rhodey nodded sharply. “Agreed.”

“This never happened.”

“Definitely -”

Gunshots rang in the hallway. Without a moment’s hesitation, the three of them ran towards the room they’d heard the noise coming from. Steve shouldered the door open, and they all piled in -

* * *

_Fifteen minutes ago:_

A couple of hours, two broken nails, an exploded blender, a rebuilt blender, and an accidental fire later, Rocket sat on the bed with his tablet and sipped cautiously from a homemade caramel frappuccino. His suite had a fuckin’ fully-stocked kitchen, for crying out loud. He was bored. He liked caf - or coffee, as they called it here. Wakanda didn’t have a Starbucks. One thing led to another.

It wasn’t easy; Rocket had to make the caramel and whipped-cream himself with separate recipes, but hell, it was just followin’ instructions. Like teaching himself to make a bomb. Rocket prodded the whipped cream with a straw and slurped it up. Not bad.

Though he was pretty sure, from the pictures, that caramel wasn’t supposed to be crunchy. But he liked it anyway. Sugar and caffeine went a long way to soothe the sting of finding out exactly what a raccoon was. Fuckin’ weirdos. Each one looked like they weighed twice as much as he did. They were pests. Vermin. Trash pandas, people called ‘em. Those things were a damn sorry sight compared to him, but still. What right did he have to laugh at raccoons? He was a made thing, not blood-and-bone special humie right from the box. Just one step between him and them.

He stabbed the drink with his straw and kept scrolling.

He’d started his journey looking up all the things Quill was batshit crazy about - music, celebrities, more music. Then he went deeper. He now considered himself a veritable expert on Footloose, Earth tech, Stark tech, Jurassic Park, the reboots with the Quill lookalike, porn, Disney, Batman, and every single war in the past hundred years. (Pshh. Amateurs. Early-days Asgardians were a hell of a lot worse.)

And he finally found out who blew up the frickin’ Chitauri, all those years back, thanks to YouTube. One of them Avengers people Thor was talkin’ about. Flew a fucking nuke into a portal. Almost got stuck on the other side. Big deal, blow up one army through a space portal and suddenly everybody thinks you’re special.

Rocket idly tapped the side of the tablet and sipped the last of his drink. His throat was startin’ to hurt, either from the sugar or the cold. The tablet was pretty snazzy, that’s for sure, but he could probably hack it. Maybe get a signal back to the Benatar on this thing. It might take some specialized filtering and amplification to get a signal to wherever the fuck they were, but he could strip all the shit in the kitchen for parts. Tell ‘em to come back to Terra. Maybe tell ‘em about the d’ast ring they found.

The last of the drink disappeared. Rocket glared at the cup as if he could will more of it into being. After a few seconds, he heaved a sigh and shuffled out of bed. There was probably enough in the blender for another drink. Too bad they didn’t have alcohol in here; now _that_ would make this a party.

Once he was safely ensconced in the blankets again, he started some more research. His fingers tapped out **lord of the rings**. He’d get a feel for it - maybe wave it around in their faces that he, Ye Lowly Raccoon, knew so much about the Terran legend. He cackled around the straw in his mouth. “That’d show ‘em,” he muttered, clicking on the first link he found.

Judging from the summaries he found on Wikipedia, the story was a hell of a lot like the Shi’ar legend of the Crown of Ages. Made sense, if Thor’s story ‘bout his dad was true: everybody had their own version of the tale. Though the Crown of Ages was probably bullshit, since he’s pretty sure they’d stolen the Crown from the Bank of Shi’ar once to sell to Contraxia, then stolen it and sold it to the Badoon, who they’d stolen it from again and sold back to the Shi’ar. Good times.

Distracted by the memory, his hand slipped, and he accidentally hit a link. Another page popped up.

He dropped his drink.

_Groot._

No. Ents, they were called. Ents. His lip trembled, and he grabbed the tablet with both hands, staring. Oh, god. They looked just like him. ‘Cept he’d never seen a _Flora Colossus_ with a beard like that. Maybe the old ones had ‘em, but he’d never know.

He’d never -

Something deep within him _snapped._ He bared his teeth. Rocket stood up, the remains of his drink puddling on the blanket, and launched the tablet into a corner. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor, its screen somehow undamaged.

That wasn’t enough.

Rocket picked up his gun and held down the trigger. Bullets flew.

There were thundering footsteps in the hallway, and the door swung open, bouncing off the wall. He didn’t care who heard him, didn’t care what would happen -

* * *

Steve, Natasha and Rhodey froze in the doorway.

The raccoon was standing on the edge of his bed, his back to them, firing bullet after bullet into a smoking tablet in the corner. The broken circuitry sparked. Steve moved forward to stop him, but Natasha seized his shoulder with an iron grip.

Rocket’s shoulders were shaking.

At some point, the tablet began to smoke. The raccoon’s whole body slumped; the massive gun slipped from his fingers and fell to the mattress. He turned to face them. Tears were streaming down his muzzle, but his eyes burned with barely-restrained anger. “What,” he snarled, his voice cracking. “Whaddya _want?_ Can’t you humies just leave me in _peace?_ ”

Steve’s eyes flickered to the tablet in the corner.

“Just leave me alone,” Rocket whimpered. His tiny hands clenched into fists, and his eyes promised murder.

The tablet had nearly been blown to pieces, but there was still an image on the screen. An Ent, it looked like.

          _I am GROOT!_

_I am… Steve Rogers._

Oh. Now he understood. Something in his chest shriveled.

“We will,” Natasha said firmly, seizing Steve’s elbow. Steve reluctantly backed away, his eyes flickering between the tablet and Rocket’s tear-soaked face. He wanted nothing more than to do something to help - but if the fury and embarrassment in Rocket’s eyes was any indicator, he’d probably get his eyes clawed out if he tried. He softly closed the door. The faint smell of burning circuitry filled the hall.

After a brief, awkward silence, Rhodey turned to go back to his room. “I don’t know about you guys,” he said heavily, “but I’ve had enough of today. I’m calling it.”

Steve nodded, something heavy clogging his throat. “Okay,” he finally said. “...Okay.”

As if it would ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "what do you know of loss"
> 
> | ||  
> || |_
> 
> sorry I had to
> 
> Side note: I'm using Bruce's original past from the Marvel-616 universe, because I like it more than the MCU version. The Bruce/Thor scene where they discuss their angst was heavily inspired by the amazing fic "better hide the children" by queervampire - though it definitely ended in a very very different way than theirs. Oops.
> 
> Sorry for all the Civil War wank, too; it was just inevitable, especially after it came up last chapter. Feel free to yell at me if you don't like the positions I had Thor and Bruce take. Tbh there are arguments for both sides; this just made sense given their pasts and how their characters have developed in the MCU. But Civil War is behind us, and we gotta keep moving. 
> 
> And poor Rocket. Someone needs to cut him some fucking slack. (Not me, though... but maybe in the distant future. Just sayin' - if they kill him off in the next IW movie for the sake of "balance" or whatever the fuck, I will flippeth mine fucking shit. I love Rocket too much.)
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated, as always. Yell with/at me on my Marvel tumblr, thor-20.tumblr.com. Next time: two unlikely allies have a chat, and Tony's tendency to plan way too far ahead just might come in handy - if FRIDAY pulls the strings right. And coming up: Shuri vs. the United Nations. I have the next two chapters drafted, but after that I might take a little break, because I'm working on planning the second book of an original fantasy series and... well you probably don't care about that, but long story short, I'm going to be busy. Rest assured; we're going to get back into plot sometime soon. Very, very soon.
> 
> Until next time.


	7. Shadow of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In all of this chaos, what’s left of the world is left reeling - and the biggest question that comes to mind, echoed by millions on social media around the world…”
> 
> Ned mouthed the words along with the news anchor.
> 
> “Where are the Avengers?”

_You have used up all of your call and text data for this month - _

Ned made a face and tossed his phone onto his bed. It bounced once, twice, and promptly dove off the edge of the mattress to hit the floor. Before he could stop himself, he automatically muttered, “Same.”

The phone did not respond. Honestly, he didn't expect it to, but who was he kidding.

Someone changed channels in the living room. Ned cast a baleful look at the closed door, through which he could hear panicked news anchors on CNN screeching about the Dusting, and slumped back onto the bed. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Hoping he could block it all out.

_“In all of this chaos, what’s left of the world is left reeling - and the biggest question that comes to mind, echoed by millions on social media…”_

Ned mouthed the words along with the news anchor.

“ _Where are the Avengers?_ ”

It was the middle of the night, and the cable news still couldn’t give it a rest. They’d been singing that tune for the past four hours, and it was getting old by now. Ned was… God, he was so _tired_ of all the speculation, all the panic. There were news reports of something big going down in Wakanda. Cellphone footage from Greenwich Village, showing Iron Man facing down two massive aliens in the middle of the street - and the ship taking off not even an hour later -

_“We know that Iron Man was spotted following the spaceship as it took off-”_

Ned rolled his eyes.

_“And enhanced - look at this - enhanced images show someone clinging to the side of the ship. Right there -”_

“Good God,” his father said loudly. “That’s _Spiderman!_ ”

“What?” Ned screeched. Cold seized his entire chest. What the hell was Peter thinking! He nearly broke the door of his room down trying to get to the living room. His parents were on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. Ned ran right into the back of the couch and stared.

“What the hell,” he breathed. Sure enough, someone had managed to get a shot of the spaceship - and there, hanging onto the sides, was a tiny scrap of red and blue.

_Peter._

_“As far as we can tell,”_ the news anchor was saying, “ _that’s Queens’ favorite neighborhood Spiderman, stuck on the side of that ship.”_ Each word was slow and ponderous, in that self-important news-anchor tone that made everything they said sound important. It made Ned want to tear his hair out. Fuck’s sake, that was his _friend_ on that ship, and - and yup. It was in outer space. Fucking outer space.

He’d used up all his calls and texts for the month trying to get a hold of Peter. As a last resort, he even called May Parker to see if she knew where Peter had run off to. Nothing.

“Ned?”

His mother had turned around, one arm flung over the back of the sofa. “Are you doing alright?” she said softly.

Ned opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a while. “Yeah,” he said faintly. “I - I guess. I’ll be fine.”

His father, eyes still glued to the TV, nodded mutely. “It’s hard for all of us, son,” he said. “You should take a break while you can. Isn’t school canceled for the rest of the year?”

Ned grimaced. “Yeah.” They’d canceled school for the entire state, after reports of the Dusting came in. Not enough teachers, or not enough students. Or both.

“Have you heard from Peter?”

The images on the TV flickered. Now they were talking about the Rogue Avengers being sighted in Wakanda, and General Ross’s hissy fit on national television. Ned shook his head, feeling like he was about to throw up. “No. I’m going to my room.”

His parents let him, without a word. Ned slunk back to his room and gently closed the door. His phone still lay on the ground; he kicked it sourly, and it slid under his desk.

_Have you heard from Peter?_

“Have I heard from Peter?” he said in a mocking voice, sitting heavily on his bed. “No, haven’t _heard from Peter,_ not since he jumped out of the goddamn bus to go fight aliens, of _course_ I haven’t heard from him -” Ned ran a hand over his face, something stinging in his chest.

He’d helped Peter escape the bus. He’d let him go.

And now he might never see his friend again.

Ned reached down and grabbed his phone, willing himself to not cry. He was sick of this - sick of not having answers, sick of hearing cable news blathering on about “celebrities lost today” and “United Nations having an emergency meeting” and - this was the worst - “number of missing and/or dead continues to climb.” They couldn’t even decide on a fucking _adjective_ for everyone who’d been Dusted.

For Peter’s sake, Ned sincerely hoped they wouldn’t decide on “dead.” If Tony Stark was… was okay, then he’d probably punch the lights out of anyone who said Peter was dead. That guy had stuck to Peter like glue the past two years - he was practically Peter’s dad by now.

Ned thought of Iron Man rocketing after Peter into the stars. If he was with Peter, then Peter was probably fine.

He hoped.

At this point, though, hoping wasn’t nearly enough. Ned needed _answers._ Mr. Stark was, obviously, off the planet, so he was out, but there had to be information on the inside.

Something like a smile crossed Ned’s face; he moved over to his desk and powered up his computer. He hacked Peter’s suit that one time. He could fucking hack Stark Industries if he wanted to. As the monitors blinked to life, Ned cracked his fingers and set to work.

  


Five minutes later, as he was practically elbow-deep in Stark Industries’ firewalls, a massive window filled one of his screens. Text scrolled across it.  **Put on your headset.**

His blood froze. “Ohhhhh, shit,” he breathed.

The words disappeared, replaced with **I’m not Skynet, I’m not going to kill you. Just put your headset on.**

Ned could barely bring himself to move. **Please?** the text said. Okay, fine, he could deal with that. Skynet had manners. Very helpful. His hands shaking slightly, Ned slid his headset on.

A woman’s voice filled his ears. “ _Hello, Ned Leeds_ ,” she said, in a rolling Irish accent. “ _My name is FRIDAY. You were trying to hack me, weren’t you.”_

“Sorry,” Ned squeaked.

“ _Oh, don’t worry about it, you didn’t do any harm,_ ” FRIDAY said cheerfully. “ _Stay put for me, would you?”_

“Uh -”

Another window opened in the other screen. Ned sat up straight, his stomach twisting. “Oh, hi,” he said.

Virginia Potts, CEO of Stark Industries and the scariest woman Ned had ever seen in his life, smiled faintly at him from his screen. Her hands were laced together on the desk in front of her. She looked crisp, polished, and absolutely terrifying. “Hello, Mr. Leeds,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

Words failed him. Fully aware that his mouth was wide open, and that he was probably blushing an embarrassingly deep red, he stammered, “Uh - um. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’m, uh… sorry to bother you, but I was -” Ned coughed awkwardly and adjusted his headset. “I saw Mr. Stark and Peter on the news,” he said nervously.

The warm understanding in Ms. Potts’ eyes deepened. Ned suddenly noticed how tired she looked. Not in a rude way - she just looked like she’d been working in front of a screen for hours, fueled by nothing more than panic, Red Bull, and spite. He knew the feeling. “I know,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on with them; I’m completely in the dark. All I know is that Tony didn’t come home, and Peter was with him.”

Her hands gripped each other even tighter, so tight that her knuckles bled white. She said softly, “I don’t even know if -”

Ms. Potts broke off. Ned swallowed and finished her sentence. “You don’t know if they’re even alive.”

She gave him a jerky nod; her hands unlaced to rub at her temples. “Ned,” she said, “I know you’re worried about Peter. I am too. I don’t know what he was thinking -” The _I don’t know what Tony was thinking, either_ went unsaid, but was loud and clear. “- but - I don’t know. I’ll give you updates when I can. As soon as I know anything about Peter, I’ll tell you.”

Ned slumped in his seat, stunned. “Thank you,” he finally managed to choke out. “I - that means a lot, thank you so much -”

“It’s nothing,” Ms. Potts said wearily, giving him a faint smile. “You don’t have to hack Stark Industries every time you need to get a hold of me. FRIDAY, can you send him my number?”

“ _Of course,”_ the AI said. His phone buzzed on his desk, with an official email from Stark Industries. Ned stared at it, flabbergasted.

“Thank you,” he said again. His face flamed up. God, he sounded like a broken record.

“No problem.” Ms. Potts straightened in her chair, one hand reaching for a stack of papers. Ned immediately felt guilty that he’d drawn her away from her work. “I have to straighten a few more things out, but rest assured, if I hear anything from Tony or Peter, I’ll let you know straight away.”

With another tired smile, she ended the video call. The windows on the other screen, where he’d been running the hack, closed out on their own - but Ned’s head was spinning too much for him to notice. Answers. Finally, he’d get _answers._

In the other room, the TV switched off. Silence rang throughout the house.

* * *

The moment Ned’s face vanished from her screen, Pepper let out a heavy sigh that seemed to drag every bit of air from her lungs. Flames flickered on the walls. “FRIDAY, set windows to opaque, please,” she muttered. There was a soft hum as the windowpanes darkened, and the echoes of the burning buildings behind her faded from the walls.  _Now_ it felt like midnight in here.

It felt almost like the aftermath of the Chitauri attack. Buildings ablaze, abandoned cars in the streets, a haze of smoke and fear in the air. A morbid corner of Pepper’s mind pointed out that the haze probably wasn’t just smoke. “Jesus,” she breathed, her head sinking into her hands.

“Are you alright, Ms. Potts?” FRIDAY said softly.

“Yeah,” she said. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. “I’m just… worried about Tony.”

“I know the feeling. I’m sure he’s alright.”

“I hope so.”

God, she hoped so. Pepper had seen the news reports on the Dusting, as they were calling it, and the shaky camera footage of Tony’s showdown with the Children of Thanos. Only Tony would call a dangerous telekinetic alien Squidward...

But according to FRIDAY - and cable news - Tony wasn’t even on the _planet_ anymore. She was so damned worried about him - nothing mattered more to her in that moment than knowing if Tony was alive. It never got easier - but now, it was a fifty-fifty chance that he was dead or alive.

Those were terrible odds. Random fucking chance. Somehow that made it worse, knowing that there was no room for injured and alive, or lost, or grabbing some takeout before he came home because dammit he’d had a long day kicking ass, but he’ll get her favorite if she wants it because he knows how stressful it is for her.

Alive or dead. Schrodinger’s Tony. A strangled laugh escaped Pepper’s throat. She laced her hands together to stop them from shaking, glancing at her phone. Notifications popped up at a mile a minute: emails from department heads, from reporters, _diplomats,_ the fucking _Department of Justice_? Her lip curling, Pepper flipper her phone face down and took a deep breath. “FRIDAY, who do we have left?” she said, perhaps a bit too sharply.

“Casualties have not been confirmed,” FRIDAY said apologetically, “but I can give you a rough estimate.”

“Fire away.”

There was a brief silence. “A little less than half of employees employed at the Tower have disappeared,” FRIDAY said. Her voice was subdued. “I’m sorry.”

Pepper squeezed her eyes shut, opened them. The light from her computer monitor seared her vision. “So am I,” she whispered. Jesus. Her chest constricted, just thinking about the ashes beneath her feet. “What about our other allies - what’s left of SHIELD?”

“No idea,” FRIDAY admitted. “Though I do have camera footage of Colonel Fury and Agent Hill turning to ash.”

“Damn.”

“And I have some data from Wakanda, if you want to hear it -”

“Please,” Pepper said quickly. Any data was good data, in a time like this. “Abridged version, if you can.”

“Alright - I’ll send you the full surveillance file from the Hulkbuster I was able to salvage.” Another pause - FRIDAY’s equivalent of clearing her throat. “Well… it’s not pretty. Wakanda was attacked by an alien army; then a giant purple alien showed up, tore the yellow gem from Vision’s head, and put it in a gauntlet he was wearing with the rest.”

“And then -”

“And then he snapped his fingers. And - well.”

“Yeah. Who...”

“Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, King T’Challa, James Barnes.” FRIDAY fell silent. “Vision,” she said softly.

Pepper exhaled. “I’m sorry,” she said. The words rang hollow in the empty office. FRIDAY didn’t seem to notice.

“I do, however, know who survived on Earth,” FRIDAY added.

“Do tell.”

“Rhodey, Romanoff, and Rogers are still alive - and Bruce and Thor came back, imagine that - oh, Clint’s also alive. He’s en route to Wakanda as we speak, maybe a little more than an hour away from landing.”

Pepper nodded slowly. She sat up in her chair and stared at her desk, tapping her fingers on the glass, watching the light of the computer monitor gleaming on her engagement ring. She was alone in this. All the major players that could help her were in Wakanda, too busy for her to talk to. Not that she wanted to admit that she needed help; she was CEO of the most powerful company in the world, after all. But it would be nice to not be so… _solitary._ Even in past disasters, Tony had been by her side to help. They hadn’t been torn apart like this since the Mandarin.

She just wishes that she could do _something._

In the past, Pepper had never found it necessary to step up. Tony would take care of the exploding things and stuff on fire - and Pepper would put out the metaphorical fires and scare some decency into the angry bureaucrats. Tony would always take care of the danger - no matter what it did to him. She was fine with being CEO. She was.

But he’d sworn that he wouldn’t do this again. God, she was still so _mad_ at him, when he _promised_ he’d stay…

Pepper took a deep breath.

_My suits. They’re a part of me._

“Guess you just can’t get it out of your blood, huh,” Pepper said, to the empty room. “Some things, time cannot mend… some hurts go too deep…”

FRIDAY interjected, “Ma’am, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, FRIDAY,” Pepper said softly. “It’s just… It’s Tony. I’d always tried to get him to slow down, or to stop this.”

“As long as the world needed him, he never would,” FRIDAY pointed out.

Pepper made a face, but she didn’t reply. As long as Tony _believed_ the world needed him - as long as he believed that it was in his power to fix it… He would never stop. Every time Pepper saw him in that suit, she was so afraid for him, and his life - especially when he came back a bloody mess after Siberia.

The speakers hummed faintly, the way they did when FRIDAY was preparing to speak but wasn’t sure if her words would be listened to. “I think Tony was doing all this for you,” she said softly.

_Threat is - imminent. And I, uh… I have to protect the one thing I can’t live without. That’s you._

“He already thought he lost you once, and he doesn’t want to lose you again. You’re the best thing he has in his life, and he knows it - and he just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

Pepper pressed her lips together. “I’d be okay if he stopped putting himself in danger like this,” she muttered.

“Well - you know what they say,” FRIDAY said. “If you can’t beat ‘em…”

She trailed off and fell silent. Pepper raised an eyebrow and fixed the surveillance camera with a skeptical look. “You join ‘em?” she finished. “FRIDAY, you’re… I’d never want to do that. I’d take a pantsuit over an Iron Man suit any day.”

Silence fell in the room, and FRIDAY did not respond. Not even the speakers hummed. In the silence, Pepper swallowed and looked down at her hands. Slender, soft; manicured nails and perfect cuticles. She twisted her right wrist, curling the fingers and imagining the cold embrace of a metal suit. It terrified her to think of it.

And yet.

She remembered how it felt, that time in Malibu when she’d worn the suit to protect Tony. Claustrophobic, sure, and _recklessly_ violent, but…

Pepper opened her hand, palm towards the screen. Her hand was silhouetted against its glow.

It felt _powerful._

The speakers hissed, but FRIDAY didn’t speak. “You alright, FRI?” Pepper said softly.

“I’m quite well, thanks,” FRIDAY said. Pepper thought the AI spoke a little hastily, but she wasn’t sure. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

And just like that, the AI was gone. Pepper pressed her lips together and put her hands down, slightly uneasy. It was odd, even for FRIDAY, to leave the conversation so abruptly - but the AI was right. If the notifications on her phone were any indication, she had a lot of work to do.

Pepper picked up her phone. She’d answer her most important calls first - like the ones from her mother. She would ignore Twitter; she would ignore Facebook; she would ignore everything, just what she could solve on her own.

That’s what she did best, after all.

* * *

While Pepper Potts was busy calling people back, a notification popped up on - and was automatically dismissed from - her computer desktop.

**“PROJECT DERNHELM: MK 17 SCHEMATICS.”**

* * *

Pepper switched to email correspondence with the DOJ. Another notification blinked and disappeared, too fast for her to see it.

**“PROJECT DERNHELM: TRAINING PROGRAM.”**

* * *

With the precision and vindictive streak of a trained assassin, Pepper hunted down every single email from General Thaddeus Ross that she could find and deleted them. She would ask FRIDAY to do it, but this way was more satisfying. The pompous windbag could go suck an egg. They had bigger problems than the Accords.

As she left the window to kindly tell Ross, through a 3AM voicemail, to fuck off, an email slipped into her inbox.

**“PROJECT DERNHELM: SUGGESTED DIET REGIMEN.”**

* * *

The morning sun crested over New York City, lingering on the edges of smoke clouds. FRIDAY pointedly made the windows transparent again, and the orange light of dawn shone into Pepper’s office. With a weary sigh bordering on a groan, Pepper shut off her phone and forced herself out of her desk chair.

Unbeknownst to her, a window opened on her computer. Text scrolled across it.

“ **PROJECT DERNHELM: AUGMENTED SUIT-SPECIFIC AI.”**

**“NAME: ANTHONY.”**

**“AWAITING ACTIVATION CONFIRMATION.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIKE, comin' at ya with another chapter. it was already practically written, i just wanted to get it out there. sorry about the length and any mistakes, i was just impatient lmao. Quotes from Pepper's segment are from IM3. 
> 
> Next: Shuri sees how many vine references she can sneak into a United Nations meeting before she starts laughing her ass off. Besides, it's the only thing keeping her from punching the United States' delegate in his smug colonizer face.


	8. Many Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He refused to turn on the lights; only the flashes of lightning through the skylights gave him light to see. Under the tumbling water, amidst the crashing thunder and spears of lightning, it felt as if he was in the fury of the storm outside.
> 
> With the Hulk silent, he could finally stand in the midst of a thunderstorm without thinking of gunfire - of cannons, and tanks, and fear.
> 
> It felt wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about UN proceedings or quantum physics. Then again, neither does most popular media. Any real people who appear here are used fictitiously, with no intent to be libelous or slanderous.

She hated everything.

The cavernous assembly chamber in the UN’s New York headquarters rang like a gong; the echoes throbbed in Shuri’s head. She stifled a groan and rubbed her temples. When Okoye, similarly jet-lagged and grumpy, cast her a glance, she shook her head minutely. General Okoye wasn’t the only one watching her. She was easily the youngest person in the room by a margin of _decades_ ; dozens of pairs of eyes were no doubt watching her, to see if she’d mess up.

But damn, she just wanted to take a fucking _nap._

Shuri hadn’t slept much after the meeting over the ring. She’d taken the books to her lab and set to work, converting the books into holograms, because some of the damn things were from nineteen-fucking-fifty-four. First editions, annotated to hell and back. So fragile it felt like they were printed on moth wings. _The Hobbit._ All three _Lord of the Rings_ books. _The Silmarillion._ The twelve volumes of _The History of Middle Earth._ Each one riddled with a script unlike anything in their databases - a combination of many, if Rocket’s and Bruce’s observations were to be believed.

And once she was done - several hours later - there was hardly time to sleep. On Wakanda’s fastest jet, it would be an eight-hour flight across Africa and the Atlantic to the UN headquarters in New York City. She gave a passing farewell to Clint Barton, who had arrived just as she was about to leave, and boarded the jet with Okoye and Onyeka. Instead of sleeping in those eight hours - as best she could, with the crushing hands of inertia squeezing her rib cage and her skull until they felt fit to burst - she did what any kid her age would do if they had time to kill and a pit of panicked despair in their chest.

She watched Vine compilations. Eight hours’ worth. Didn’t sleep a single wink on the flight over. And now, she was severely regretting it.

Shuri reached out and skimmed her fingertip through the dust along the top of her plaque. _WAKANDA,_ she knew the other side said, in perfectly inoffensive white Arial letters. Her brother used to sit here. He would sit ramrod straight in his chair, flanked by his bodyguards, hands folded on the table as he surveyed the room with a faintly raised eyebrow. Every inch the diplomat. She sighed, removed her hand from the plaque. She never imagined she’d be in her brother’s place. Adamantly hoped against it, in fact.

Not for the first time, the Black Panther prototype around her neck felt like a noose.

She grimaced and seized her coffee - venti, iced, four espresso shots - resisting the urge to pry the lid off and just chug it like an American frat boy at a party. It was tempting. The Starbucks down the block was… halfway decent. Shuri settled for demurely sipping from it, choosing not to return the odd look she was getting from the British UN ambassador down the aisle. She was too tired for that - and a niggling foreboding sensation told her that she’d want to save her ire for someone who actually deserved it.

The door opened. There was a momentary lull in the dull roar, and then it surged back with more force than ever. Curious, Shuri looked up, right into the haggard eyes of Everett K. Ross.

Agent Ross’s face was twisted in that peculiar way his face sometimes did - a glowering sniff, somewhere between “just smelled some rotting garbage” and “trying to glare an obstinate politician into submission,” both of which were accurate and nearly synonymous in this environment. When he met Shuri’s eyes, though, the rage-sniff momentarily faltered, replaced with abject shock. Shuri nearly winced. Her brother’s death wasn’t entirely international knowledge, then.

A buzzing cloud of reporters surrounded Agent Ross; he swatted them away and made a beeline for Shuri’s seat. “Your Highness,” he muttered, giving her a respectful nod.

One corner of Shuri’s mouth tipped up. “Agent Ross,” she said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, CIA, you know how it goes,” he muttered, his rage-sniff deepening into a full-on scowl. He saw Shuri’s searching glance and shook his head. “Not mad at you. Just - damn it all. Sorry in advance.”

“What -”

The reporters grew louder. Both Shuri and Agent Ross turned to the door, and Shuri just barely bit back a groan. The CIA agent still noticed, of course. “Yep. Sorry.”

General Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross was shouldering his way through the crowd of reporters. “We lost Haley in the Dusting,” Everett muttered to her. “Ross has been Secretary of State for a few years now, apparently that’s enough to qualify him for diplomacy.” Shuri scoffed.

General Thunderbutt finally broke free from the crowd of reporters and threw himself into his chair, a rumpled mess of a man. He looked like he’d been to hell and back; Shuri would have preferred if he’d stayed there, to be honest. His meltdown over the Accords not being enforced - and his very public, very profane confession to court-martialing Col. James Rhodes for not turning in the Rogue Avengers - was televised internationally, and did nothing but make him look like a paranoid asshole. More than usual, anyway. The fool was still trumpeting the original version of the Accords - not the one that her brother, Tony Stark, and dozens of other legislators had sweated over for the past two years to make them better for everyone.

The general’s bloodshot eyes scanned the room and fell on Shuri. She raised an eyebrow at him and turned away, pretending to engage Okoye in conversation. Her grip subtly shifted on her Starbucks cup, so her middle finger was plastered across the front, directly at Ross.

Okoye gave her a disapproving look. Shuri raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“We are here to tell the world about Thanos,” Okoye muttered back, “not make bad press for ourselves.”

“Come _on,_ it’s Ross. The General.”

Okoye glanced to their left, along the row of tables. Her lip curled, and she looked away. Shuri suppressed a snicker.

The crowd of reporters was ushered into the observer seats by security; Everett Ross gave the room a once over and slipped into the seat next to Thunderbutt, his eyes landing pointedly on Shuri’s half-extended middle finger. He winked subtly. Shuri lifted her cup to hide her grin, accidentally flipping off Argentina’s representative, who was now staring at her in outright shock. She hastily fixed her hand, giving Mr. Moritán an apologetic grimace.

And suddenly, the emergency session began.

Suffice it to say that Shuri was lost within the first five seconds. Last time she’d been here was two years ago, when Wakanda first decided to reconnect with the outside world. Not much had changed. Same politics. Same doubting looks. Except that half the people in the room were new, some representing governments that had been completely destroyed by the Dusting. The world was changed. Shuri could feel it.

Thankfully, Wakanda - a.k.a. Shuri - didn’t have to actually speak for a while. Everyone else was piecing together the timeline, which was woefully short: first the donut ships in New York and Scotland, and then the attack in Wakanda. Whole world gone to shit, in less than 24 hours. It felt like a bad sci-fi movie.

So Shuri just sat back and let it wash over her - she’d already been filled in on what happened in New York by Bruce, who’d seen it all. The aliens landed, fought with Iron Man, kidnapped an unknown person believed to be former neurosurgeon Stephen Strange, and zipped off with Iron Man and Spider-man in tow. Then, Scotland: two more aliens landed, and according to security footage, they were after Vision, only barely held off by Scarlet Witch, Captain America, Black Widow, and the Falcon. Basic.

When it was Shuri’s turn to speak, though, everything ground to a halt.

The eyes of the world turned to stare at her. It was like being faced down by the entire Dora Milaje, spears shimmering, eyes cold and unyielding. Her bodyguards shifted closer, a silent comfort. Shuri awkwardly cleared her throat and angled her microphone towards her.

“Greetings,” she said awkwardly. The words clung to her throat, and Shuri did her best to force them out without sounding like a seven-year-old in front of the _entire United Nations_ and the army of journalists there. “I - My name is Shuri, and I am here on behalf of my brother, who was lost in the Dusting,” she said. There were brief mutters of sympathy, some of disdain. It made something cold and hateful curl in her gut.

On the arm of her chair, Onyeka tapped out a message in code. _You can do this,_ she said. _Let them scorn. They cannot harm you._

Okoye’s fingers drummed on her right. _Do not yield._

Shuri sat up straight, unaware until that moment of the slight slouch in her shoulders. She blamed her mortification over her posture and her exhaustion for what she said next.

“So - after coming to the Avengers Compound, the Rogue Avengers decided to come to Wakanda to use our expertise in removing the stone from Vision’s head.”

SIlence. Secretary-General Guterres leaned forward, his lips nearly brushing the mic, and said, “Clarification, please - what stone are you referring to?”

_Oh, shit._

There was murmuring among the representatives, and Shuri mentally kicked herself, panic running ice-cold down her spine. She’d just accidentally revealed the existence of the Mind Stone to the entire fucking _world_.

Okoye turned to her and whispered, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t, “Say it.”

Shuri stared.

“You might as well,” she said softly, “because the stones are all off-planet now, and everyone who might object to you sharing is dead.”

_Everyone who might object is dead._

Well, if that wasn’t an accurate, though slightly morbid, truth. Shuri had been briefed on all the stones by Bruce, when he had arrived. She knew little else other than what Bruce had told her, but it would have to do.

Shuri swallowed, and summoned the last remaining strength she had to speak. “As is understood by myself and Wakanda’s allies,” she said, “the stone in Vision’s head was one of six singularities, created at the beginning of the universe. Each was contained in stones, granting their wielders control over six aspects of the universe: space, time, mind, soul, reality, or power.”

Her leg was jimmying uncontrollably under the table. She did her best to make it stop. “Vision’s stone was the Mind Stone, containing an artificial intelligence that far rivaled anything Earth was able to create. And the infamous Tesseract, used in both HYDRA weapons in World War II and in opening the portal in New York in 2012, was a fourth-dimensional container meant to harness the power of the Space Stone.”

She studied herself briefly on the screens hanging at the front of the council chamber, looming over the entire assembly. “The stones,” she said heavily, “have been pursued by an extraterrestrial who calls himself Thanos. He is… he is the closest thing to sheer evil that this world has ever had the misfortune of seeing. He laid siege to a ship full of Asgardian refugees - the last five hundred or so of their kind - and slaughtered them all. He beat up the Hulk so thoroughly that Bruce Banner could no longer summon him.” There were whispers around her - _Bruce Banner is alive? -_ and she could feel General Ross’s glare boring into her. “Thanos wanted the stones. Uniting them would grant him unlimited power, and dominion over the forces of the entire universe.”

Muttering. Shuri glanced around, seeing diplomats and representatives leaning close to each other, or writing notes, or simply turning to stare at her with a strange gleam in their eyes. This was why she regretted speaking of the stones. They were not meant for mortal men to grasp. They brought nothing but ruin.

It wasn’t until the muttering in the hall grew stronger that Shuri realized she’d said that out loud. “The stones,” she said again, “are too powerful for anyone to use. Besides - it is pointless. Thanos took them with him when he left.” She hesitated. “After killing off half of all life in the universe,” she said.

“In the _universe?_ ”

General Thunderbutt’s voice rang out over the crowd, somewhere between a shout and an undignified screech. The feedback from his microphone made everyone wince. “What do you mean, in the universe?” he repeated again. He was nearly standing up. Agent Ross looked like he was about to yank the General back into his seat. “I thought… hell, I thought the United Nations’ official stance on extraterrestrial life was that the Asgardians are the only _aliens_ ,” he scoffed, waving a hand, “out there. Are you on _drugs?_ ”

There was an offended uproar, but Shuri ignored it. “No,” she said scathingly, right into her microphone. “I’m on my seat.”

Some representatives laughed outright; others let out startled chuckles. Shuri smirked. The general walked right into that one. Thunderbutt’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. “Why, you -”

“General Ross, Queen Shuri,” Secretary-General Guterres said coolly. Thunderbutt finally allowed Agent Ross to elbow him back into his seat. “If you can’t comport yourselves in a professional manner, I will have you escorted out.”

“My apologies,” Shuri said, stifling a grin. Honestly, it was worth it. Slip a Vine quote into a UN assembly? Check _that_ off her bucket list. The internet was going to flip its collective shit.

Then Guterres leaned over his podium. “Queen Shuri,” he said. His voice echoed ponderously in the meeting chamber, and Shuri lifted her chin. She tried to ignore how the weight of her new title slammed into her chest - even if it was only a formality, not an official position. “Your country is the only one present that has had contact with the alien Thanos. Can what he has done be fixed? And can he be stopped?”

Guterres paused. “More importantly, can he be stopped with anything that your country may have?”

A glimmer of gold flashed through her mind.

_Yes. He can._

But Shuri could not bring herself to say that - something told her that the Ring was not something to be discussed with these people. She could not tell them. She would not. Those vultures would find a reason to storm her country and try to take it - or at least batter down the Sanctum’s doors, demanding they turned it over. Shuri had already messed up, telling them about the Stones.

The Ring must remain secret. It must remain safe.

“He has the six Infinity Stones,” she said instead. “And he is currently in an unknown part of the universe, far beyond our reach. For now… it would take a miracle to stop him, on our own.”

“And are we on our own?” Secretary-General Guterres demanded.

Silence. The world waited with bated breath for Shuri’s response.

She sighed. “I honestly don’t know.”

* * *

They’d called for a lunch recess. Okoye and Onyeka immediately flanked her when Shuri rose to throw away her empty coffee cup. After briefly shaking hands with Agent Ross and very deliberately blowing off General Thunderbutt, she made a beeline for the bathroom and locked herself in a stall. A venti iced coffee did bad things to her bladder.

For a long while after she was finished, Shuri stared at her reflection in the back of the stainless steel door. Even through the distortion and the smudges, she could see the hollow gleam of her eyes. The nanosuit necklace reflected as well, lingering beneath the gleam of her eyes in a cheerless grin.

She took a breath. Held it.

“Your Highness?”

Onyeka’s shadow appeared beneath the stall door. “Are you alright?” she said softly, in the Wakandan tongue.

Shuri did not answer for a while. “Yes,” she replied, staring at a drain in the floor. “Yeah. What are we doing for lunch?”

Onyeka leaned against the stall. The main bathroom door swung open, then quickly shut without anyone coming in. Shuri smirked. “We can go back to Starbucks,” her bodyguard suggested. “It’s close. You seemed to enjoy the coffee.”

“I did, yes.”

Shuri left the stall and made for the sink, resolutely not looking at her reflection in the mirror. Onyeka was a silent yet reassuring presence at her shoulder. “Shuri,” she said, softly.

Shuri turned.

“If you need to go home,” Onyeka said, “do not hesitate to ask.”

The thought of returning home made a knot of homesickness swell in her throat. Shuri ducked her head and soaped up her hands. The soap stank of plastic and air.

“They will understand if you do not return.”

“It’s not proper procedure,” Shuri said tonelessly. That was what she remembered, anyway, from the crash course in international proceedings she’d received on her last visit, at her brother’s side two years ago. There would be a two-hour lunch break, and then they’d be back in the assembly hall at three.

But her hands shook beneath the spray of water. Bast, she just wanted to go _home._

* * *

A handful of minutes found her waiting sullenly in line at the Starbucks down the street from the UN headquarters. The place wasn’t terrible; she’d had better coffee, but never at a place with such variety. Maybe when this whole mess calmed down, she would see if she could open one in the city. She and Okoye could be co-franchisees.

It was a thought, nothing more. But Shuri knew that, if she was trying to find hope for the future in a bastion of western capitalism, she was definitely out of it. She should have slept on the plane...

Before the what-if’s and how-about’s could swallow her completely, she turned her gaze to the people waiting in line ahead of her. There were only three: the Ukranian representative, who was already picking up her order, a security guard, and a man in a crisp suit. Okoye stood between Shuri and the man in the suit, but she wasn’t going to order. Maybe. She was currently squinting at the menu, so perhaps she would. Shuri had just ordered what the person ahead of her did, to see if she liked it.

The security guard moved to pay for his order. Okoye seemed to have heard what he’d gotten, and was muttering his order under her breath. Shuri hid a smile.

Then the guard collapsed.

It was almost instant pandemonium. The barista vaulted over the counter, shouting something about CPR. The guard had fallen into the arms of the man behind him, who slowly eased him to the ground and knelt beside him, not caring if he wrinkled his suit. After a curt discussion with the man in the suit, the barista whipped out her phone and called for an ambulance.

The security guard began to twitch; unease curling in her gut, Shuri stepped forward to help. She was stopped by an abortive hand motion from Okoye. “What?” she hissed.

“They have it handled,” Okoye muttered back, her eyes scanning the Starbucks. Shuri frowned at her and followed her gaze. It was Okoye’s job to analyze surroundings, to suspect foul play - but this was clearly just a medical emergency.

Wasn’t it?

An ambulance quickly pulled up outside, and paramedics streamed in. The security guard was going into full-on convulsions now; everyone gave the emergency team a wide berth as they struggled to get him on the gurney and out of the Starbucks. Shuri stared helplessly as the ambulance drove off, screaming against the New York City traffic.

Onyeka gently nudged her. “Do you still want to get coffee, or would you rather go somewhere else?” she said softly.

Shuri pursed her lips and turned away. “We’re here,” she said in an undertone. Okoye listened in, her eyes still sweeping over the cafe. “We might as well stay.”

The man in the suit pushed himself to his feet, wiping dust off the knees of his crisp black suit. His eyes briefly met Shuri’s, and he gave her an acknowledging nod. Shuri gave a cautious one back, taking him in. He seemed about her brother’s age, with dark skin, a kind face, and what seemed like a perpetual wrinkle of worry between his brows. There was a strange elegance to him and the way he moved. Despite herself, Shuri was slightly intrigued - he seemed familiar, though she didn’t know where she may have seen him. Perhaps in the section for the media… though, if he was really a reporter, he would have probably stopped her for an interview…

His hands dove into his pockets. There was a flash of gold. Shuri stared at where his hands vanished into his pockets, but when he pulled out his phone she glanced away sheepishly.

Strange music played - tinny, full of pounding bass and dramatic brass - spouting from one of the TVs bolted to the wall. Numbers counted down on a screen rife with sleek computer animations.

_“This is an ABC News Special Report, with George Stephanopolous…”_

A harried-looking man with greying hair appeared on the screen. There was an almost automatic hush when he began to speak. _“We’re coming to you live from New York with a special report from both NASA and Stark Industries-run sattelites - in the wake of yesterday’s tragedy, a massive unidentified object has entered the atmosphere above Africa…”_

Satellite images, with the Stark Industries logo stamped on the bottom right, flashed on the screen. “Oh, Bast,” Shuri breathed, staring at the image: a massive disaster of a spaceship superimposed on Earth, clearly propelling itself towards Africa.

She’d bet her life that it was headed for Wakanda. _Not again,_ she pleaded, grabbing Okoye’s arm for support. _Please, just… not again._

  


_Eight hours ago:_

Bruce woke to the thunder in his bones.

The air was charged, in the breath between lightning bolts, and rain-laced wind howled along the building’s exterior. He blinked, slowly. The whole world was muffled and soft. Bruce did not realize why until another thunderclap made his teeth vibrate, without a burst of lightning to accompany it; in the night, he’d somehow turned to lie on his stomach, blankets rucked around his ears and his pillow over his head.

Bruce removed the pillow. A cool rush of night air struck him, and he closed his eyes, running his hands through his too-short hair. It had easily been eight or nine hours - but his body still screamed from exhaustion.

Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled. He cringed and dropped his head onto the pillow.

It took a while to coax his stiff body out of the bed, into the morose blue gloom of his room in Birnin Zana. He had fallen asleep in yesterday’s filthy clothes; the stale stench of the battle clung to his skin. A cursory glance into his suite’s closet revealed some loose pants and nondescript shirts. Bruce grabbed some without really seeing them and went straight for the shower.

This, at least, was familiar. He refused to turn on the lights; only the flashes of lightning through the skylights gave him light to see. Under the tumbling water, amidst the crashing thunder and spears of lightning, it felt as if he was in the fury of the storm outside.

With the Hulk silent, he could finally stand in the midst of a thunderstorm without thinking of gunfire - of cannons, and tanks, and fear.

It felt _wrong._

Five more minutes fumbling with Wakandan shampoo and soap, and Bruce found himself before the fogged bathroom mirror - nothing but a silhouette against shadows. He dressed in the dark and turned on the light. His reflection was wearing a baggy dark green shirt and oversized purple pants. Bruce groaned and leaned against the countertop, closing his eyes. The universe _had_ to be fucking messing with him. He looked at himself one more time, at the shadows beneath his eyes, the lines of anger and weariness carved into him - and he figured, well, what else was new?

Thunder slammed above. Bruce saw his cheek twitch in a barely-suppressed flinch.

After unearthing a pair of soft-soled slippers from the closet - again, too big for him, and there had to be irony in there somewhere - he slipped to the door and peered into the lit hallway. It was completely silent, save for some snuffling from a room to Bruce’s left. Thor’s door across the hall stayed firmly shut. Bruce grimaced at it. No light gleamed from under the door. He wanted nothing more than to go in and apologize to Thor, yet again, just to hear it said again in the gloom of night, to give it permanence. But this was probably a shit time for apologies. Thor was asleep. Probably.

Bruce flinched from the next clap of thunder and moved down the hall.

He was inexplicably drawn to the room four doors down from his; the door was cracked open slightly, and a faint smell of burning plastic drifted through. He frowned and pushed it open.

“Oh, sorry,” he said hastily.

On the floor, sitting next to the obviously-shot-up and still-smoking remains of a tablet, was Rocket. His massive gun lay somewhere near his feet. “Don’t bother,” the raccoon whispered.

Bruce, doing what he did best, decided to bother anyway. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look okay.”

“Guess not.”

Rocket’s curt voice allowed for no disagreement. Bruce shuffled into the room, taking in the scorch marks on the wall and what looked and smelled like spilled coffee on the bed. “If you need anything,” he said awkwardly, “I - uh, I can help.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating Rocket’s pointed muzzle and glancing along the metal of his gun. “Offense meant, but I ain’t in a desperate enough position to ask for help from a grown-ass man in pajamas.”

“They’re real clothes,” Bruce said defensively, “they’re just too big.”

“Uh huh. You wanna help? You can do me a favor by leaving.”

Bruce said, “No.” Rocket eyes flashed at him. “I just…”

“Just wanna do something, huh?” The raccoon looked away, shuffling closer to the wall. “Don’t we all. Just don’t do it from pity, alright? Can’t stand that shit.”

“Neither can I,” Bruce said, honestly.

They fell into a slightly less uncomfortable silence. Bruce wanted to sit down on the edge of the bed, but the sight of the spilled coffee made him change his mind. “I can give you my tablet, if you want,” he offered. “I don’t really need it.”

Rocket cast a pensive look at his own tablet in the corner, instead of responding. “Maybe,” he said slowly.

Bruce heard the tone of his voice and raised an eyebrow. Gears were turning in the raccoon’s head. “What’re you thinking of?”

“Nothing.”

“If you’re planning on building a bomb or something from the tablet, I kind of want to know -”

“Sheesh, why does everyone assume I’m building a bomb?” Rocket muttered, dragging himself to his feet. He moved stiffly. Bruce could relate. “I just got an idea, that’s all. A communicator,” he said curtly, before Bruce could ask what he meant. “I just wanna call my fucking friends and see if they’re okay. Maybe they picked up your buddy Iron Guy and the wizard, and the spider kid. Who knows.”

“And - and you know how to make one?” Bruce said.

“Well, I’d need more parts than this -” Rocket nudged the wrecked tablet with his foot. “- and I dunno where I’d find ‘em -”

“A communicator,” Bruce repeated, ignoring the look Rocket was giving him. He was still hung up on the idea; of course, after his time on Sakaar he knew those things were possible, space walkie-talkies that let beings across the galaxy talk to each other instantaneously - but building one on Earth? That seemed damn near impossible.

Unless Rocket really knew what he was doing. “I want to help,” he said.

Rocket scoffed, “C’mon, humie, stay in your lane. Terra don’t have nothing like what I can make -”

“I have seven PhD’s,” Bruce said, glaring.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that I know what I’m doing. It - it sounds like you’re trying to simulate a single-system set of quantum-entangled particles, except what binds the particles is -”

“Aghh, alright, alright!” Rocket snarled, clapping his paws over his ears. “I get it, you’re a brainiac. Now shut the hell up, and let’s do this.”

Bruce beamed. Rocket bared his teeth.

They gathered up the smoking slag of Rocket’s tablet in a pillowcase. Bruce went back to his room, his slippers making soft shushing sounds on the floor, and grabbed the Nalgene bottle he’d borrowed from the New York Sanctum. It was filled with what looked and smelled like iced coffee, gone rancid from heat and age. Bruce cringed and took it to the bathroom to rinse it out.

While he was waiting for the water to heat to scalding - hopefully it’d kill the bacteria - a soft buzzing came from the tablet on his nightstand. _“Bruce Banner?_ ” said a voice - definitely Wakandan.

“Yeah?” he shouted into the bedroom.

 _“Sorry to disturb you,”_ the voice said, _“but you were the only one of your companions who is currently awake._ ”

“Don’t worry about it - _shit_ !” Bruce hissed, and dropped the water bottle into the sink with a hollow _thunk_. It had filled with boiling-hot water and overflowed onto his hands.

 _“You alright?_ ”

“Yeah, just peachy.” Bruce quickly dumped out the hot water, gave the bottle a cautious sniff, and switched to cold. “What’s up?”

He winced a bit at the informality of his voice. The Wakandan spoke again - she sounded vaguely familiar. What was her name, Nayeli - no, Nakia. _“Clint Barton has arrived._ ”

Bruce dropped the bottle in the sink again. “Oh, great!” he said, trying to sound cheerful to mask the panic suddenly slamming in his chest. He had no idea what Clint thought of him, after two years; this would be a nerve-wracking meeting.

“ _He’s waiting in Shuri’s lab, if you want to go there,_ ” Nakia’s voice said. A pause - then, “ _I heard your conversation with Rocket, by the way.”_

“Oh.”

_“Sorry, I did not mean to intrude. It was for security purposes.”_

“Right.”

 _“You and Rocket can use the lab if you want,_ ” Nakia offered. _“We give you permission, as long as you agree to stay away from Shuri’s high-security experiments. And if you’re fine with us observing.”_

Bruce gripped the water bottle tighter to keep himself from dropping it again. His brief sojourn in that lab had been the stuff of dreams. It was all he could do to keep himself for running straight there without another thought. “Thanks,” was all he could choke out.

It sounded as if Nakia was struggling not to laugh. _“No problem, Dr. Banner,_ ” she said. _“Best of luck to you._ ”

The tablet buzzed once, then fell silent. Bruce stared at the bottle, which was now overflowing again, and cursed.

* * *

When they got to the lab, Clint Barton was puttering around with a broom in one hand and a shiny travel coffee mug in the other. Temporary plasticine barriers had formed over the broken windows, but the floor was still littered with broken glass. Clint seemed to be fighting a losing battle against a handful of Wakandan Roombas, swatting them away from his careful pile of glass shards, and he looked absurdly like an Olympic curler.

He looked up only when the door hissed shut. A one-eyed golden Labrador Retriever lifted its head, and let out a soft _boof._ Clint gave the dog an admonishing look - the dog put its head back on its paws - and turned back to them. Bruce flinched when he saw the hollow look in Clint’s eyes, just barely masked with a cold mirth. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Clint must have seen something in Bruce’s face, because he put the broom and coffee mug on Vision’s operating table and came right over. “Don’t give me that,” the archer said, and hugged him. Bruce tensed in surprise. “C’mon, hug it out. You need it.”

Bruce slowly returned the hug. “Thanks.”

Clint patted him once on the back and let go, though his hands stayed on Bruce’s shoulders. There was a bandage around his left hand. Bruce almost immediately missed the contact; Clint had always given great hugs. “You look like hell,” Clint added, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Been through it, too,” Bruce said.

“Man, you gotta tell me about it sometime.”

“Yeah, we’ll have time for that - Rocket, no, don’t touch that!”

Rocket had hopped onto a workbench and was slowly sifting through the cabinet above it. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped. “You’re not my mom.”

“No, but you should leave it there,” Bruce insisted. “It’s rude.”

“Look, I gotta get parts,” Rocket said sharply, pulling out something circular and broken. “Ain’t exactly a junkyard here. I gotta do what I gotta do.”

_“Rocket -”_

“Hey, look,” Clint said curtly. He crossed his arms. “The Wakandans let us in here out of the goodness of their hearts, alright? We can’t take advantage of their shit without their permission.”

“Kid, taking advantage of people is what I do for a living.”

“Been there, done that, it’s not that cracked up. C’mon, they might kick us out, and then we’re _fucked_.”

“I ain’t takin’ advice from some fucker with a d’ast bow and arrow - c’mon, what kinda fucking clown do you think you are?” Bruce cringed.

Clint was unruffled. “They explode, too,” he said. Rocket, despite himself, seemed vaguely interested. “And I have guns. Lots of them.”

“That supposed to be a selling point?”

“It’s the truth, is what it is, trash panda-!”

Rocket launched the hunk of metal at Clint, who caught it without looking at it. The dog barked. “Don’t,” Rocket snarled, “call me that. Ever. Again.”

“Fine,” Clint said. “Don’t steal more of Queen Shuri’s stuff, and we have a deal.”

Rocket bared his teeth in a rabid snarl, but he hopped off the workbench into a spinning desk chair. “Fuck you,” he spat out. The chair, propelled by his momentum, kept spinning. “Fuck you and the stupid plane you rode in on. Why the fuck are you here, anyway?” he added, ignoring Bruce’s frantic _shut up, shut up now_ gestures behind Clint’s back. “What’s your excuse?”

Clint did not react, as far as Bruce could see. “My wife and three kids were Dusted,” he said curtly. “Excuse enough for me.”

“Shit,” Rocket swore. He grabbed the desk as he spun past it and came to a stop. Bruce wasn’t great at reading raccoon emotions, but Rocket seemed like regretted what he said. “Man, I - I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

Clint shrugged stiffly. “It’s fine.” Without another word, he turned back to Vision’s operation table and picked up his metal travel mug, holding onto it like it was his last anchor to life.

Rocket stared after him, face unreadable again. “Okay,” he said lowly, almost to himself. “Okay. Ey, Banner, give me the broken shit in the bag.”

Bruce realized that he’d dropped the pillowcase with the broken tablet in it. He hastily scooped it up - nudging away the golden Lab, who was sniffing it curiously - and shoved it at Rocket. “Got a plan?” he asked.

Rocket had already turned to the workbench and was prying the casing apart. “Never do,” he said offhandedly. He cast a glance at Clint - the archer was now sitting on the operating table again, sipping quietly from his travel mug - and added, “Just hand me tools and shit. Left most of mine on the Benatar, now I’ll have to figure out these damn Earth ones -”

“The Benatar?” Bruce repeated, raising his eyebrows.

“Quill’s ship.”

Bruce screwed up his face. “What kind of person names their ship after 80s pop stars?” He saw Rocket’s unimpressed face and added, “Not to insult him or anything, I just… it seems a little weird.”

“Nah, it’s weird,” Rocket agreed. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Tell ya what. Pull up a chair, give me some tools and whatever tech on ya you don’t think you’ll need, and I’ll tell you about ‘em.”

“You sure?”

“Gotta keep myself busy somehow.”

* * *

The night wound on. Clint, who didn’t have the foggiest idea of what was going on, alternated between sitting with Lucky - the dog - and scratching his belly, and sitting on the workbench while Rocket tinkered.  Bruce had no idea what Rocket was trying to do; all he could do was hand Rocket tools and scraps of metal, while the raccoon assembled some junky monstrosity on the table. All the while he prattled on about the Guardians. Bruce got the impression that the Guardians were basically the Avengers of space - a little less organized, and a lot more like a close-knit family, but the analogy still applied.

“Peter’s a dumbass,” Rocket said matter-of-factly. “Pass me the screwdriver. No, the one with the laser. Thanks. Half-human, half-Celestial - his dad fucked his way through half the d’ast galaxy in the hopes of making another him. We blew the asshole up two or three years ago. Fuckin’ deserved it, after what he put Peter through.

“Peter’s head-over-heels in love with Gamora. Tall, scary green chick. Thanos kidnapped her and destroyed her homeworld and turned her into an assassin, so she got a great childhood goin’ for her, eh?”

“No.”

“It was sarcasm.”

“Wow, that’s something I’d never expect from you.”

“Hey, look at that, you get it. Yeah, so for some reason, Gamora decided that it would be a great idea to get with Peter. Can do a hell of a lot better, if you ask me. But Peter treats her good, I guess. Good as he can.

“Then you got Drax. Drax the Destroyer. Dumb as a sack of rocks. No filter. No concept of metaphors. His wife and daughter were killed by Kree, and he decided to go on a fuckin’ rampage. We met ‘im in prison, actually, that was a fun time. He’s buddy-buddy with Mantis - bug-eyed chick who can feel your emotions when she touches you. Can control minds too, kinda, if she kicks her moral code to the curb long enough to do it. They got the same sense of humor. Practically nonexistent, for both of ‘em, but you know, you take what you get.”

He fell silent, prodded the contraption with his finger. It sparked, but did not explode, and he looked slightly disappointed. Bruce felt something there in the silence. It was like a thread hanging from an unraveled sweater, and being the idiot he was, he tugged on it. “Who else?” he said softly. “Besides yourself.”

Rocket’s claws screeched across the tabletop. “Groot,” he said quietly. “My best friend. Then he died, and grew again, and I took care of his tiny punk ass until... Until I couldn’t anymore.”

“What happened?” Bruce said. He didn’t understand what Rocket meant, and he wasn’t even entirely sure who Groot _was_.

“Thanos happened.” The raccoon snapped his fingers. “Like that,” he said. “He was gone.”

And then, he turned to Clint, who was perched on top of the workbench next to Bruce. “See, I know what you feel,” Rocket whispered. “I _know._ ”

“You do?” said Clint, still clinging to the cup.

“I _know_ ,” Rocket whispered again, and an ancient and terrible grief clung to his voice. Clint slowly lifted his chin. A light of understanding flickered in his eyes.

“Coffee, anyone?” Clint said, sliding off the workbench.

Bruce nodded once. “Cream and sugar, if it’s there,” he said.

Clint’s questioning gaze included Rocket.

“Yeah,” the raccoon croaked. “Give me whatever you got.”

* * *

“Try giving it a couple more volts.”

Rocket swiveled in his chair and gave Clint a truly spectacular skeptical look. “Give me a good reason why I should do that,” he drawled.

Clint sipped from his mug and said, “Just do it. Can’t explain it, I just have a feeling.”

Rocket grinned. “Ain’t that reassuring,” he said gleefully. “Okay. Here goes.” He flipped a couple of switches and adjusted a lever. It did wonders - Bruce assumed as much, since he only had a vague idea of what Rocket was aiming for. At least it turned on this time.

“How the hell did you know it would do that?” he asked Clint.

The archer shrugged. Something passed over his eyes. “I remembered things,” he said simply. “From Loki.”

Bruce’s heart sank. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

Clint made a face and waved his free hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s fine,” he said. He took another sip of his coffee. “That time isn’t ever going to go away. I might as well use it how I can.”

“Loki?” Rocket said. “Ain’t that Thor’s brother? What’d he do to you?”

“Brainwashing. Made me a mindless slave for a couple of days.”

Rocket continued to stare at Clint. “So you got torn apart, huh,” he said. “Unmade.”

Clint nodded. The two shared an unreadable glance that made Bruce feel slightly left out - and he recoiled slightly, so sickened that he’d even _felt_ that. He’d never had someone completely break him, turn him into something else. Not like these two had. He’d done that all himself, just fine.

* * *

They took a break for lunch at 2:00 in the morning. Bruce and Clint huddled around the coffee machine, shoulders slumping and eyes bloodshot. Lucky followed Rocket around, hopelessly begging for a piece of Rocket’s thrown-together roast beef sandwich.

Clint looked paler than usual - too pale, for someone who’d spent the past two years in the Iowa sun. “You alright?” Bruce asked him.

The archer took a long pull from his coffee mug, and went back to refill it. Bruce thought he heard something clunking inside his mug; when Rocket cursed and dropped to the ground to pick up a tool, he figured he’d just heard it hitting the ground. “I’m fine,” Clint said.

“You need anything?”

“Nah, I’ll live. It’s… just been a long day.”

Bruce nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and went back to the workbench.

* * *

“So.”

The sun threw spears of light across the laboratory, glimmering on the polished worktables and tools. Bruce glanced at the sky and ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble. It was a red dawn. Rain still fell, though it was more of a muted drizzle with occasional rumbles of distant thunder.

“We got it,” Rocket continued. He prodded the communicator with a wrench and added, “It’s as close as I can get to the thing the Benatar used. We just gotta hope it works.”

“With all the effort we put into it, it better,” Clint said dryly.

Rocket scoffed. “Effort? You just sat there and looked pretty the whole time. You call that _effort?_ ”

“Yep. It’s tough, looking this good -”

“Kids,” Bruce said sternly. The two glanced at him, then at each other, and rolled their eyes. “Seriously,” Bruce said. “Let’s give it a shot. Rocket, turn it on for us.”

“Sure thing.”

Rocket flicked a switch and keyed in a few digits on a makeshift keyboard; the letters on it were nothing that Bruce had ever seen, except in bits and snatches from the Ancient One’s journals. The whole thing was alien and strange to him, though he was still entranced by it. They’d sacrificed a blender, two tablets, some scrap metal, and an orgasmically beautiful particle accelerator to create the space radio. Clint was right. After all the shit they’d destroyed to put into it, the thing had better work. Bruce leaned forward in the swivel chair and watched the lights blink on the comm unit.

A soft tone sounded from behind him. He didn’t turn to look, but Clint did, heaving his body off the workspace and disappearing from sight. Rocket grimaced and typed a few more things. “Not connecting,” he said heavily. “Probably lost the Benatar. Lemme try the escape pod frequency, and then we’ll see.”

“Uh, Bruce?” Clint called.

Something in Clint’s voice made him uneasy, and Bruce immediately wheeled his chair over to where he was. “What?”

A holographic display shone before them, showing a closeup of the curving edge of earth with a starfield glimmering above it. Bruce froze.

“I’m guessing this isn’t good.”

A massive object had just entered the atmosphere over Wakanda. “You’re probably right,” Bruce said grimly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Rocket, d’you -”

He turned to the raccoon, but he was listening intently to the comm unit. His ears twitched frantically. There was a sharp squeal like an old dial-up internet connection, and everyone cringed.

Then a click, and a soft tone. Rocket recoiled. “What the fuck -”

_“Rocket.”_

The voice that emerged from the speakers was coldly feminine, robotic. Rocket relaxed slightly, though not by much. “Nebula?” he said. “The hell are you doing?”

 _“No time to explain - listen,_ ” the woman snapped. _“There was a fuck-up on Titan. I’m on Kraglin’s hunk of junk ship, and we just entered Terran airspace. You need to -_ ”

“Kraglin’s got a -” Rocket cut off with a snarl and seized the microphone. "Listen, good talk. Get Quill on the line," he demanded.

 _"I can't hear you,"_ Nebula said curtly. " _Your signal's breaking up."_

"Get Quill on the line," Rocket shouted, "you useless hunk of metal!"

"Harsh," Clint muttered.

_“Shut up!"_

"No, you shut it! I need to talk to Quill, lemme talk to him!" There was a note of desperation in Rocket's voice. "Nebula, I'm sorry, let me talk to Quill, _please_ -"

" _No time for that,"_ Nebula said. " _Just tell_ _the Terrans not to blow us out of the fucking sky!”_

 _"_ Nebula, you fucker -!"

Another voice spoke up, overlapping Rocket's words. _“Tell ‘em we got Tony Stark,”_ he said.

A rush of relief swept through Bruce. He grabbed the makeshift microphone, ignoring Rocket's curses and grabby hands. “This is Bruce Banner,” he said into it. “I’m his friend, let me talk to him.”

 _“He’s been passed out for the past seven hours,”_ the unknown man snapped. _“Got stabbed through the gut on Titan.”_

“He _what_ -”

“ _Shut up and let us land,”_ Nebula snarled. _“Rocket, we’re homing in on the signal from your comm. Plowing through, whether you like it or not. Lift any force fields or shields to let us through -_ ”

“Shit!” Clint yelped. He sprinted across the lab and ran to the door, practically launching his coffee cup onto a random table. “Nakia!”

The door to the lab opened, and the short-haired Wakandan woman burst through. “What?” she said sharply.

Clint approached her. “We need you to authorize turning off the shield,” he said, a pleading note in his voice. “Please.”

Nakia shook her head. “We can’t,” she said. “There are still Outriders outside the shield - we can’t afford to let them through now.”

“Not the entire shield, just a little bit - if that’s possible.”

“Why?”

“There’s a massive alien ship with Tony Stark on it barrelling through the atmosphere, and we need to make sure it doesn’t blow up with him still on it,” Clint snapped.

“Who’s Tony Stark?” Nakia said blankly.

Clint threw his hands up in the air. “You’ve got to be kidding -”

“I am.” Throwing Clint a quick grin with way too many teeth in it, Nakia slipped over to a holographic display and keyed in a few codes. “I will give the ship access to the shields. You better be telling the truth.”

“Dead honest,” Bruce confirmed.

Clint opened his mouth, hesitated. “While you’re at it, can you fire off a text to Queen Shuri and get her to tell the UN that the ship’s friendly?” he said. Bruce blinked, not expecting Clint’s mind to work that fast, and immediately felt bad for it. Clint was pretty smart - it just didn’t show that often.

“Will do,” Nakia muttered, swiping through submenus of code. She swore and clicked a few random buttons.

The comm unit crackled. _“We’re coming in hot,”_ the man said tensely. _“You guys in a forest or some shit?_ ”

“It’s an illusion,” Nakia shouted over her shoulder.

“What she said,” Bruce agreed. “Just fly straight through it and you should be fine.”

 _“If you’re lying to us and we crash and die,”_ Nebula snarled, _“I will personally come back from the dead just to hang you with your own intestines.”_

 _“What she said,_ ” said the other man. Bruce groaned and rubbed his temples.

There was a loud crack of thunder. “Done,” Nakia said. Her fingers flew, drafting a message to Shuri. “Should be clear to land -”

A great howl of displaced air, and suddenly the windows were filled with metal. The floor shook; Bruce grabbed the edge of the table. Through the window, he saw a massive ship - a bristling, rusted mess, like an Imperial Destroyer knockoff toy suddenly given life - heading straight for the open field on which the battle had taken place. Bruce stared at it, a bit petrified. It was easily as large as the Asgardian refugee vessel.

His feet took him to the window, where the red light of dawn seethed over the jungle and rain still drove down. Thunder rumbled. Bruce squinted through the rain-streaked window, hoping to see some signs of life from the ship.

The lab door swung open; there were hushed voices, one of them a familiar rumbling baritone. Bruce hugged his arms over his stomach and stared at the reflection of the room behind him. He could see Thor standing awkwardly in the doorway, standing aside briefly for Nakia to leave, and then returning Clint’s welcoming hug. He looked like hell. His eyes were slow, and his hair was damp and stuck up in every direction, as if it had just been furiously toweled dry. Bruce’s stomach lurched. He put it down to guilt. Must have been guilt.

The thought that maybe the night’s massive thunderstorm had been caused by Thor, tossing and turning in restless sleep, made him cringe a bit. That there was definitely guilt.

Thor glanced up from scratching Lucky’s ears, meeting Bruce’s eyes in the reflection.

The others filtered out of the room, presumably heading for the courtyard to retrieve Tony. Lucky trotted happily after his owner, claws clicking on the floor. Bruce turned to face the lab. A flash of golden hair raced past the laboratory door - probably Steve. “Bruce,” Thor said, in a strangled voice.

“Yeah?” Bruce replied.

“I -”

Thor stopped, exhaled sharply, and walked towards Bruce. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for what I said earlier. I… I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.”

Now that they were less than three feet apart, Bruce desperately wanted to smooth down Thor’s hair; it was seriously starting to bother him, now. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “I forgive you.” Thor blinked, clearly not expecting it. Some of the fog lifted from his eyes. “Really,” Bruce added. He really did - the blame lay more on Bruce himself, who spoke to maim and hurt, to make _Thor_ hurt. “I was an asshole, too.”

Thor’s lips twitched, and he said, “I understand.” And somehow, Bruce knew that he did. "I like the colors," Thor added, gesturing vaguely at Bruce's clothes. Bruce rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop a smile from surfacing.

There was one last rumble of distant thunder, and the rain stopped. Silence rang in the lab. Bruce felt no desire to break it; it was the soft, dusky silence of the world after a thunderstorm, cool and peaceful. Wordlessly, he spread both his hands. Thor stepped forward carefully, lifting his own arms to return the embrace. Bruce stood corrected - Thor’s hug was definitely better than Clint’s; something about it dulled the tension in his muscles, calmed his seething mind. He smelled inexplicably of damp earth and pine, and Bruce _knew_ there was some kind of fancy word for that smell -

Thor cleared his throat softly. “Uh, Bruce? Why’s there a ship parked outside?”

Bruce sprang away from Thor as if he was on fire. “Oh - Tony’s back,” he said quickly. “A couple of Rocket’s friends brought him back.”

Thor immediately brightened - though his face had seemed strangely blank before. “Great!” he said, walking backwards towards the door. He accidentally bumped into the table with the comm unit on it, and both he and Bruce made abortive movements toward it to stop it from falling. Thor steadied it carefully. “Right. Let’s go.”

The god of thunder scurried into the hall, caught Stormbreaker as it hurtled past, and practically sprinted down the hall. Bruce blinked owlishly a few times. He could hear Thor’s footsteps thundering, for lack of a better word, down the hall. For some reason his legs were leaden, refusing to move.

Only the thought of Tony - injured, unconscious, _dying_ \- spurred him to start running after him.

* * *

The princess - now queen, apparently - was now huddled at the back of the Starbucks with her bodyguards, reading some kind of message. He watched them for a brief moment, before turning to the counter to order. Coffee was far more important at the moment.

He had been in the reporters’ section during the first half of the meeting. He had seen the hesitation in her face, when the Secretary-General asked her if Thanos could be stopped. And just now, after the convulsing security guard had been taken away on a gurney by paramedics, he had looked into her eyes and seen the faintest taint of magic on her. Somebody had used it near her recently. It clung to the young queen, even now.

He took his drink from the barista, nodded his thanks, and stepped out into the New York City streets. As he waited for a small crowd of tourists to pass, his eyes drifted north towards Greenwich Village. He took a sip from his drink and turned his back to it.

A visit to Wakanda was in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the gremlins in my head, banging pots and pans together and stomping around: PLOT PLOT PLOT PLOT PLOT PLOT PLOT
> 
> me, also banging pots and pans together and stomping around: I KNOW I KNOW I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT'S GOING ON I ONLY KNOW HOW THIS IS GOING TO END AND EVEN THAT IS TENUOUS AND COMPLETELY UNCERTAIN
> 
> So, yay, we're back into the swing of things! Sort of! This fckin chapter is a monster, yall, but I suspect you're all fine with that. If anyone noticed any wacky changes in tone and style, it's Neil Gaiman's fault. I picked up American Gods and read it, and loved it, and his writing style kinda bled through into everything after the "eight hours earlier" line. Whoops. (Also, I couldn't figure out how to get more vine references in, because most are either too vague or too profane to insert into a UN meeting without embarrassing both Shuri and her entire country. Sorry.)
> 
> (the gremlins are also shrieking about the thorbruce. honestly it's really sneaking in there, i think i can officially add it to the relationships tag list. hnggghhhhh I blame @faramir-in-space for getting me hooked on this ship. her blog is amazing, check it out if you're a bruce fan, a thor fan, or a gammahammer fan, or you just love marvel and great fanart.)
> 
> Also, at the end: I haven't been in New York in four years, and my internet is garbage enough that I can't look up google maps. (And all our atlases are in storage.) I know jack shit about borough locations in NYC. Sorry.
> 
> Next chapter: Tony is dead. Or Tony is alive. He's not going to rely on his brain to answer that, because in the last 24 hours his brain has proven to be an absolute bitch-ass liar.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated, as always. If you see any inconsistencies, feel free to call me out. See y'all later.


	9. Cold Be Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony keeps walking down the hallway - and now, now he can see Stephen himself at the end of the hallway. No matter how far he walks, Stephen seems so far away…
> 
> A flash of blue makes him glance to his right. Then he recoils.
> 
> “We’re here.”
> 
> There is no suit in the next alcove: it’s Peter Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some elements of Marvel 616 canon come in here. Just roll with it. Thanks.

“Swear to me that you won’t hurt him.”

The man in front of him stared him down. The arrow aimed at his throat didn’t seem to faze him at all. “I would never,” he said softly.

Kraglin canted his head to one side, examining him from one eye. His voice steely cold, he said, “That ain’t true, and we both know it. I _know_ what you did.”

He saw the other man wince, and that was all the confirmation he needed. “I know what you did,” he repeated softly. “I know all about it. He told me more ‘bout himself than he’d ever told you jackasses, I reckon. And I know he don’t deserve more shit to be piled on him.”

He whistled softly, and the arrow lifted to point directly between the man’s eyes. “Swear to me,” he said again, “that you won’t lay a hand on him. That you won’t fight him. And you won’t leave him for dead, ever again. If you don’t, I ain’t gonna hesitate to turn right around and take him away from here.”

Steve Rogers swallowed. “I swear,” he said, his voice just louder than a breath.

Kraglin glared him down for a few more moments. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said at last, snatching his arrow out of the air. Behind Rogers, the assembled crowd of Terrans - and an Asgardian - relaxed slightly, but not by much. Without turning around, he shouted, “Nebula, bring ‘im out!”

The cyborg woman appeared in the gloom of the hatch, carrying Tony Stark’s limp body in her arms. Kraglin saw Rogers go white and grinned. It was not a nice grin. Judging from the look in Rogers’ eyes, he could tell.

Good.

* * *

_The world is bathed in blue._

_He stands at what may have been a holographic console, or a desk, or something in between, because that sounds like something he would make. Life feels shattered beneath his feet. It feels off._

_He turns on his heel to take it all in._

_That, there, is the entrance to his old lab from the Avengers’ Tower. The cars lining the walls are from his mansion’s garage in Malibu. He’d know that Aston Martin anywhere. There is junk everywhere, a study in decades of innovations and experiments. Tony continues turning, and the room changes around him as he goes, fading like a half-glimpsed dream from one laboratory to another._

_There is a hole in the wall behind him._

_Tony walks into it and immediately stops. On his left, glowering from its crude rusty faceplate, is the Mark I. His first suit. He glares right back, and gives it a knock on the forehead. “Stop that,” he says disapprovingly, and his voice echoes. Echoes._

_He turns. One hand brushes, unconsciously, over his left side. It itches._

_The hole stretches on and on - not a hole, a hallway, and the walls are lined with his suits, stretching off into hazy infinity. Each arc reactor is lit. Each faceplate is down. He plods down the hallway, each step echoing ponderously._

_One footfall echoes suspiciously loud. He pauses, and hears the echo reflecting, muddling, growing louder and louder to a muffled hum inside his skull -_

_“Peter Quill wants to apologize,” says a deep, smooth voice. Now he can see a shape at the end of the hall, past the dozens of Iron Man suits beyond. He feels his pace pick up._

_“He says, and I quote, that he is sorry for fucking up so bad. He thinks that you would understand.”_

_“What?” says Tony. “Why would I - how would he -”_

_“Say goodbye to Rocket for him,” Stephen Strange - for that is him, cloak and all, at the end of the hall - continues tonelessly, “because he’s not here and he doesn’t know where Rocket is. The other Guardians don’t have much to say to you.”_

_There’s a pause. “T’Challa wants to say that you’re a good man. Better than a great one. He believes in you.”_

_Tony flinches._

_“And Happy Hogan wants you to apologize to Pepper when he gets the chance.” It’s a full-body cringe, now, that burns in Tony’s gut like drain cleaner. Not Happy. God, not Happy. “Pepper isn’t here. They can’t find everyone, but the ones that they’ve found seem alright. Give them hell, he says. We’re all fine.”_

_Fine, fine,_ fine…

_The word echoes down, into silence. Tony keeps walking down the hallway - and now, now he can see Stephen himself at the end of the hallway. No matter how far he walks, Stephen seems so far away…_

_A flash of blue makes him glance to his right. Then he recoils._

_“We’re here.”_

_There is no suit in the next alcove: it’s Peter Parker._

_“We’re here.”_

_Peter’s standing there in the same pose as all his suits. Staring ahead, eyes closed, back straight and shoulders back. Arms bent slightly at his sides. Shut down, powered off. He backs away from Peter’s clammy skin and unmoving waxen face, and looks in the alcove next door._

_T’Challa, in the same pose. Eyes closed. Chest still._

_Stephen stares at him._

_Tony turns, panic roiling in his gut, and stares at all the alcoves before him._

_“We’re here, we’re safe.”_

_There’s Mantis, across from Peter, her big eyes firmly shut. Drax, Peter Quill, Happy. Sam Wilson. Bucky Barnes. A human-shaped tree. Even what looks like Loki, face strangely unlined and peaceful, and a small green-skinned alien girl._

_They stand like his suits: armed, and ready for war, in a silent tomb._

_“We’re all fine,” says Strange._

_Tony turns. “We’re fine, we’re fine,” the sorcerer repeats, almost desperately, his cloak swirling in slow motion behind him. “You’re fine.”_

_A bead of sweat drips down Tony’s temple._

_“You’ve done so well,” Stephen says softly. “I don’t know what happens next, just that you’re on the right path. Tony, you’re on the right path.”_

_“Why,” Tony whispers. “Why call me Tony? We only knew each other for less than a day.”_

_“In 14 million futures,” says Stephen, surrounded by the thousands upon thousands of Iron Man suits, deep shadows in the pockets of his face and his eyes shining palest orange - “In 14 million futures, it's hard not to know someone.”_

_Stephen’s face twists suddenly._

_“Strange?” Tony barks._ Stephen _? he thinks, stricken with fear, but does not say._

_“I - I can’t stay,” Stephen gasps, and suddenly he is gone._

_Tony stands there and stares down the hallway for the longest time. The suits seem to lean in, the hallway seems to get narrower, and the faces - God, the_ faces _-_

* * *

There were way too many people in Tony’s hospital room.

By unspoken agreement, everyone followed Tony where the Wakandan doctors took him: from hospital room to surgery, then back again. It had been a remarkably fast surgery. The doctors gave Tony an injection to make his blood clot normally; then they removed the burned skin with nanobots, removed debris, and sutured up the stab. Kraglin and Nebula had lingered, answering the doctors’ questions about what Tony had already gone through as best they could.

The doctors had given Tony a large hospital room to accommodate them all; it helped that Wakandan medical technology was mostly holograms and sensors, not big bulky hunks of junk bristling with cords and tubes. They’d hauled in chairs from other empty rooms.

Rhodes sat next to Tony’s bed, clear of the IVs and other equipment, watching the hologram readout from the heart monitor. At the foot, Bruce sat with Thor, his head on the mattress. He looked like he’d been up all night. Nebula leaned in one corner, and Natasha leaned in the other, and both scrutinized each other from the corners of their eyes. Rocket was seated firmly on Thor’s lap, with Thor’s hand clamped on his shoulder; he’d tried to pull apart something in the walls, pleading boredom, and he’d been one second away from being dropkicked out the window by the overworked medical staff when Thor promised to keep an eye on him. He kept aiming dirty looks at Kraglin and Nebula.

Steve shifted on his chair; his clothes squeaked softly on the upholstery.

Eyes flickered to him. He winced apologetically. Some looked away, but others lingered, their eyes filled with something unreadable and strange. Kraglin sat to the left of Tony’s hospital bed, sitting in a way that no man was supposed to sit in a chair. He had not looked away from Steve once; his red arrow spun between his fingers like a drumstick. Clint sat on the windowsill and watched the arrow with a death grip on his coffee mug - the same one, apparently, that he’d borrowed from the pilot on the jet.

His dog looked around the room and panted happily, tongue lolling. Steve gave Lucky a small grin. Lucky wagged his tail.

The silence between beeps grew shorter.

And Tony woke with a shuddering gasp, that sounded almost like a name. Steve held his breath and forced himself to stay in his seat. Tony stared at the ceiling, chest heaving; the arc reactor cast a waxy blue glow over his face. Steve stared at it. He hadn’t known that Tony’d had it put back in.

Rhodes seized his hand. “Hey, Tones,” he said softly. Slowly, Tony turned his head to look. “Welcome back.”

Tony stared at Rhodes as if he was the sun, a smile playing around his lips. “Hey,” he croaked. “Holy fuck, Rhodey.”

“Yeah,” Rhodes said.

Tony took a deep breath and looked around his room, his eyes not quite sweeping all the way to the left corner, where Steve sat. He saw Bruce and Thor at the foot of his bed, and his grin widened. Bruce smiled hesitantly back. Tony lifted his hand in a wave -

And froze.

“Tony, you okay?” Rhodes said softly, leaning in.

The man did not respond; instead, he lifted his hand and stared at it, turning it to look at his palm. His fingers began to shake. “What did they do,” he whispered. “ _What did they do to my hands?”_

“They didn’t do anything,” Rhodes said, squeezing his hand tighter. His face was taut with concern. “Tony, look at me. All they did was clean the dust off, you were filthy when you came back -”

Tony’s hands truly began to shake now, so much so that Bruce stood and came over to the left side of the bed. “Tony,” Bruce whispered. “Hey. Look at me, what’s wrong?” Tony turned his head toward Bruce, and Steve saw tears glimmering in his eyes. The sight made him slump backwards in his chair, cold all over.  

“That was all I had left,” Tony choked out. Kraglin reached over and put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Jesus Christ, that was all I had… all I had left of him…” His head lolled to one side, away from Bruce and Rhodey, and Steve saw tears streaming down his face.

Their eyes met.

Tony’s mood changed abruptly, his eyes flying wide with - with _fear,_ and the sight made Steve’s chest hurt. “Tony,” he whispered.

The heart monitor beeped faster, and Tony looked like he was gasping for breath. Bruce and Kraglin turned to glare at Steve, but he didn’t care; he stood up, wanting to do something, to do _anything,_ to help.

“Steve, don’t,” Rhodes said, eyes weary.

Natasha unfolded herself from the corner and slipped fluidly towards Steve, and he felt her hand on his shoulder. He tried to jerk out of her grasp, but Kraglin whistled sharply and his arrow darted from his hand. Steve flinched. “You heard ‘im,” Kraglin snarled. “That heart monitor ain’t beeping that fast for no reason. Beat it.”

Steve let himself be dragged from the room. He cast one last helpless look over his shoulder, in time to see Rhodes clamping a Wakandan oxygen mask over Tony’s face, and to see Tony slump into the bed. His eyes were closed now. A strange two-fingered ring gleamed on his right hand.

Steve let Natasha drag him down the hall, her blond hair luminous in the light. The others seemed to have taken Tony’s passing out as a signal to leave the room; only Bruce, Rhodey and Kraglin stayed behind, while the others quickly filtered out. Steve found a way to linger in the hallway, and Natasha cast him a sharp look. “Why did you do that?” she said.

“I just -” He spread his hands helplessly. “I can’t just leave him there,” he said in a low voice.

“You’ll have to,” Natasha said softly. “He needs time to heal. No offense, but he needs a stress-free environment, and you’re not helping him with that.”

“But -”

“Steve.” Natasha’s voice brooked no argument. “Let it go,” she ordered. “When he feels better, when he’s in a better place, then look for him. But only if he wants to be found.”

Without another word, Natasha released his shoulder and swept away.

Steve watched her go. He knew that Natasha was right - she usually was - but now there was an urgency to the guilt that always festered in his chest. A desperation - a panic to say something, before it was too late. He and Tony hadn’t spoken once in two years, and Steve knew that Tony would rather die than talk to him. But he just… hell. He just wanted to fucking _apologize._ He wishes things could go back to the way they were, before things were broken beyond repair.

Times like this, they felt especially broken. He huffed a disappointed sigh and stared at the door to Tony’s room.

He had nightmares with Tony’s face in them.

Nightmares streaked with snow, with blood, broken glass and static on old videos - nightmares where he aimed his shield just a foot higher, not for the reactor but for Tony’s exposed neck. In each dream the whites of Tony’s eyes showed in fear, and his repulsors were up to shield his face - but not firing, never firing.

Steve had seen that exact same face on Tony just now, and he never wanted to see it again.

“Where are they, Nebula?” whispered a voice.

He turned.

Nebula stood with the raccoon down the hall from Tony’s room. He’d reminded Steve so much of Bucky in the conference room: tearing his gun to pieces, laying each fragment on the table and reassembling it with mechanical precision.

Now, Rocket was staring up at Nebula. Strangely vulnerable in his smallness, like a child. “Where are they?” he repeated.

Nebula looked down at him. “Gone,” she said curtly. “Thanos killed Gamora himself. The others died on Titan. Turned to dust.”

“Really,” Rocket breathed.

Nebula nodded jerkily. “I’m sorry,” she forced out.

Rocket just looked up at her for a few more moments. “Why you,” he sighed at last, shaking his head. “Why did it have to be you.” _You, instead of them,_ went unspoken, but Steve heard it loud and clear.

Then he slowly turned away from her and plodded down the hall - back stiff, shoulders straight. Nebula watched him go, before slipping back into Tony’s hospital room. She didn’t look at Steve once.

Steve watched Rocket turn the corner and found himself following.

Rocket had about a thirty-foot head start on him, but Steve still walked softly, not wanting to be noticed. They wound through the halls of Birnin Zana’s hospital, passing soldiers on gurneys and harried doctors that didn’t give Rocket a second glance. He nearly lost the raccoon when he turned a corner into the hospital’s main atrium; dodging gurneys and flattening himself against walls, Steve snuck to the nearest corner and peered around.

There was a flight of stairs across the atrium; an ornamental urn filled with flowers stood in an alcove under it. Rocket shuffled towards the alcove and crawled, childlike, into it. He slowly curled into a ball behind the urn.

Moments later, his hunched shoulders began to shake with silent tears.

Steve drew away.

He plodded back the way he came, no particular destination in mind. Steve thought that he might return to Tony’s hospital room, but when he reached an intersection, his feet betrayed him and froze. He gazed down the hall ahead of him; then to the left, to the right. The silence of the hospital pressed on his ears - the silence of a tomb.

* * *

It was a revolution, they said. It would be fun, they said.

Honestly, En Dwi Gast was a billion billion kajillion years old, at his last very rough estimate, and at his age, revolutions just weren’t _fun_ anymore. Sure, the people rise up against you, you pretend you lost, then - tada, a few hundred years and everything’s under your thumb again, when the old guard who first fought against you are all dead. Yippe-ki-yay. Being semi-immortal had its perks.

But right now, drunk off his arse and barricaded in his penthouse while all of Sakaar was _literally_ on fire, he decided to throw in the proverbial towel and said, “Fuck it. Topaz, I’m calling it. I, I, I’m - frankly, I’m sick of this.”

“Sick of what, sir?” Topaz grunted, holding the door shut with six other guards. Revolutionaries - ugh, such a long, filthy word - were pounding furiously on the other side. The walls were shaking. Most times, shaking walls had a much more positive connotation in En’s penthouse. This was not one of those times.

“Just, ya know…” Outside, a tower exploded, and he winced. “ _This._ Keeping our prisoners-with-jobs from burning the city down every few years is _exhausting._ You, uh, you remember the last time this happened, Topaz, right? Right?”

“That was four hundred years ago,” she pointed out, holding her half of the door shut.

“It sure was! Feels like it was yesterday, doesn’t it? Look at you, you remember -”

“I’m 43.”

En blinked. “Oh, well, you’re looking good,” he said half-heartedly. “My point is… thank you, dear,” he said to the serving robot puttering past with drinks, grabbing one himself. “Point is, Topaz, I, I’m kind of annoyed. Hoo boy, I am _past_ annoyed. I am… I am -”

Before En could decide exactly what he was, something _tugged._ “Oh,” he said feebly. “That’s new.”

“What is, sir?”

He felt something pulling at him; there was a flexing in the air, in the very composition of matter, that he could feel down to his billions-year-old bones. And you know what they say about something yanking on your soul. (He didn’t actually, but he was old and powerful enough that anything he said would be repeated and immortalized as a saying in a matter of days. If the revolution let up, of course.)

There’s always something on the other side.

The tug suddenly became a fierce yanking, as if the thing holding the other end was getting impatient. En stared down at his body, aghast, as a faintly visible aura appeared, streaming forward like dust being pulled into a tornado. Something was literally trying to tug the Power Primordial out of him - his life force, the thing that kept him alive on this trash heap of a planet for eons.

This wasn’t good.

En Dwi Gast took one last look around and decided to cut his losses. “Uh, executive decision, everyone,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m outta here. Toodles. Got places to see, people to do, you know how it is.”

“Sir -!”

He tossed his drink back, waved his fingers at a suddenly aghast Topaz, and gave in to the pull.

What followed was a vaguely unpleasant sensation like being squeezed through a rubber tube; it was made far worse when the alcohol in his mouth started to go down the wrong pipe, and wasn’t _that_ a terrible sensation. He started coughing, and when the squeezing stopped he was too preoccupied with preventing himself from choking to see where he was.

En bent over at the waist, wheezing for breath. “Wowza,” he said, thumping his chest and burping. “Excuse me. Wow, sorry about that.” He looked straight forward, into the shadows. From the echoes, it sounded like he was in a large circular room - most likely on a spaceship, if the great window filled with stars arcing around the whole room was any indication. A very tall, very bulky man-shaped thing was silhouetted; it bore a vague resemblance to his Incredible Hulk, but the head was too dome-shaped and smooth.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully.

A voice wheezed, “ _En…_ ”

En froze. He knew that voice. He _hated_ that voice. “Tanny, is that you?” he called out, crossing his arms. God, if Taneleer Tivan was here too, that would be _awkward._ They hadn’t spoken in a couple thousand years, after the incident with the smugglers and a tentacle monster they both wanted for completely different reasons.

There was no response. En swayed slightly, the world a pleasant alcohol-fuzzed blur, and stifled the urge to whistle.

A sudden explosion of rainbow light came from across the room - En cringed as it stabbed into his eyes. The light seemed physical, an amorphous glowing blob; it slowly resolved itself into a tall man, blindfolded, holding an ornate staff. His long grey hair hung in a stiff curtain down his back. En recognized him and waved cheerfully in greeting. Kamo Tharnn gave him a stiff glare - he may have been blindfolded, but he didn’t need eyes to see - and purposefully looked away. His sightless gaze landed on the hulking shadow before them, and he suddenly straightened.

En squinted at the other Elder, slightly uneasy beneath his alcoholic haze. Kamo clearly knew something that En didn’t. Then again, the bastard had the biggest collection of knowledge in the known universe. He knew things that nobody knew. It was practically his job.

Beings continued to flash into the room - old Seginn Gallio, cousin Maht Pacle, little brother Tryco Slatterus in all his hairy, muscly glory… even the Nameless One, the Judicator, eldest of them all, popped into the room and stood next to En himself. He gave her a cheeky grin; she waved a dismissive hand at him, her eyes staring straight ahead at the hulking shadow before them.

The six of them stood in a ring around the shadow. A ponderous rumble echoed through the room, like distant thunder rumbling, like a stone gate grinding shut.

“Welcome, Elders,” said a deep, vaguely familiar voice. “Welcome to the _Sanctuary II._ ”

Another light flared before them, clenched in a gold-gauntleted fist, and En nearly screamed. Thanos the Mad Titan towered before them, holding a flickering chunk of glowing plasma; tendrils hung from it, connected to a slumped and shivering man at his feet. En couldn’t tear his eyes from Taneleer Tivan’s crumpled body. How was this possible? Thanos was holding the _soul_ of an _Elder_ in his hand - none but an Elder could hold the Power Primordial and survive. Nothing was strong enough to do so. A Titan would be burned to a crisp.

Unless what stood before them was no longer a Titan. Thanos’s eyes snapped open, burning with an unnatural fire. His very veins glowed. En cursed his choice to follow the call to this place. What the _hell_ had he been thinking?

“I had expected more of you to come,” Thanos rumbled, looking over them. En shuddered when the Titan’s eyes locked on his, then moved on. “Though I’m not entirely surprised. I will take what I can get.

“I am glad that some of you survived,” the Titan added, almost an afterthought. “You are strange beings, I must admit, nearly as old as time itself… Last survivors of your kind, devoting your life energies -” He squeezed the Power Primordial in his hand, and Taneleer whimpered audibly. “ - to singular pursuits: of the strange, the bloody, the cosmic and eternal. Living as long as your _will_ to live allows.”

Thanos cast his gaze over them again. “Name yourselves,” he ordered. “The names you have given yourselves, or those your followers have given. Tell me what your specialties are.”

Nobody broke the silence that followed. En glanced across the circle at Kamo, who may have looked back - he couldn’t tell for sure. To his horror, Thanos followed his gaze and turned to the blindfolded man, who gripped his staff until his knuckles bled white. “I am Kamo Tharnn,” he said, his soft, reedy voice echoing in the room. “The Possessor of the Runestaff. I seek to know everything there is to know in this universe.”

He glanced to his right, and Seginn spoke next. “Seginn Gallio, the Astronomer,” he said, voice rough from long disuse. “I study the evolution of stars and galaxies; I do not bother myself with the pursuits of mortal beings -”

“You _are_ a mortal being,” En muttered. Seginn gave him a filthy look.

Kamo hissed, “Shut _up!_ ”

“What, it’s true!”

“Silence,” said the Nameless One, and they all reflexively fell silent. She lifted her chin and looked Thanos in his flaming eyes; he looked back with something like respect, which was _not_ a good look on him. “I am the Judicator.”

“No name?” Thanos said.

“Justice needs no name but its own,” she said smoothly. Thanos’s lips twitched with amusement. En stared in horror. He didn’t even know that the Titan could express any emotions other than rage or… rage.

Thanos looked at him next, and his skin crawled. “En Dwi Gast,” he said hastily. “Uh - Grandmaster. I, um...” Damn, this was embarrassing. “I, I do, uh, games and things. Contests of strategy and strength.” He swallowed, feeling the disapproval radiating off the other Elders. Even though none of them were actually related by blood - all merely last survivors of their original races, united by that common factor - he was always seen as the stupid little brother, playing games in the dirt while the others busied themselves with more serious pursuits. Except for old Maht. He only qualified as an Elder because he’d killed off literally everyone else on his planet. Nobody liked him.

“Maht Pacle,” he was saying to Thanos. His once-deep voice was now thin and shaky with long disuse. “The Obliterator. I… seek to kill.”

Thanos tilted his head indulgently. “Interesting,” he said.

Ignoring Tryco Slatterus completely, he looked at the body slumped near his feet. “We already know the Collector,” he mused, half to himself. “Taneleer Tivan. Spending his centuries hunting down rare items to add to his collection. Did you know,” he said, glancing around the room, “that your friend Taneleer was once in possession of an Infinity Stone?”

Everyone gasped. “Tivan, why didn’t you tell us?” Seginn snarled.

Kamo gave Taneleer’s twitching body a mildly scornful look. “Which one was it?”

“The Reality Stone, if you must know,” Thanos said. “Though once he had the Power Stone in his possession as well.” Thanos raised his hand and punched the light back into Taneleer’s body, and he screamed in pain. En flinched away. Ooh. That had to hurt.

“How _dare_ you,” snarled Tryco. He stepped forward and lifting his fists, and everybody else cringed. Thanos glanced over his shoulder. He caught Tryco’s punch with his right hand; the floor shook. He pulled the Elder off his feet and launched him into the wall. His left hand swung back to balance him, and -

The shattered gauntlet slid off. It hurtled, end over end, and slammed into En’s chest.

The moment his skin made contact with the metal, the last of his intoxication fell away, and his body lit up with pain. A sudden flash of fire filled his vision; it split down the middle, revealing shadow beyond, looking like a great flaming eye.

“ _Grandmaster._ ”

Thanos turned to him, teeth bared in a furious snarl. En let out a noise that may have been an _eep,_ or perhaps an _eek_ , as the Titan strode across the floor to him. He almost dropped the gauntlet, but judging from the literal fire burning in Thanos’s eyes that would be a very, very bad idea. Wordlessly, he thrust it at Thanos.

The Titan paused, gave him an appraising look. En looked back and held out the gauntlet just a bit more, hoping Thanos would take the hint. After a few tense seconds, he did, and slid the gauntlet back onto his left arm. Up close, it was a charred, mangled mess, like burnt purple marshmallows. Disgusting.

Thanos turned and walked back to where Tryco lay, slumped against the massive viewport along one wall. “I don’t believe I caught your name,” he observed. He stepped over Taneleer, who curled into a shivering ball. “Tell me.”

“Tryco… Slatterus,” the Elder ground out.

“Your title?”

Seginn and the Judicator glanced at each other uncomfortably.

“...The Champion,” Tryco whispered. He did not look up. “Of the Universe.”

Thanos scoffed loudly, the sound echoing. “Of course,” he said derisively. Tryco cringed and drew further away. Despite their pasts, En felt a bit of pity for the other Elder; Tryco’s schtick was being the greatest unarmed warrior in the universe, but that, obviously, no longer applied. Thanos had him beat.

En locked his hands behind his back, ignoring how they were suddenly shaking. He was sober now. Extremely sober. He did not like that new development.

“I have called you here, Elders,” Thanos announced to the room, “because of your _power_. Your wisdom, your knowledge, your strength - you stand head and shoulders above the lesser mortals of the universe.” Automatically, En and the others drew themselves up proudly - but then his eyes drifted to the Champion, a disgraced heap of flesh in the far corner, and he subtly leaned away from Thanos.

He thought of the _thing_ that he saw when he touched the gauntlet. A lidless eye, wreathed in flame.

“You would do the universe a great service if you gave me yours,” Thanos said. He clenched the fist with the gauntlet on it; the torn edges of metal shrieked, and they all flinched. “I am in search of an artifact. A ring; a simple golden ring, unadorned and unblemished. It is…”

He fell silent, savoring the sentence. “It is _precious_ to me,” the Titan said softly. The way his voice lingered on that word sent nauseous shivers through En’s body.

Thanos turned. “The Infinity Stones are another matter,” he said sourly. He clenched his fist, lifted the gauntlet. The empty sockets in it stared forth like eyeholes in a skull. “They have vanished once more. You will find them, and bring them to me. Combine your wisdom, your knowledge, your strength and ambition.”

“Or what?” said Kamo, stupidly. That had to be the stupidest thing he’d asked in eons.

Thanos whirled to face him; Kamo staggered backwards, nearly touching the wall. “Or I will destroy everything in your archives, _Possessor,_ ” Thanos snarled. “Every scrap of paper, every digital archive, every recording, _everything._ I will take your weapons -” He fixed his flaming gaze on the Obliterator, who shrank away. “I will take your strength, your mind, your sight, your _souls -_ ”

He reached out his hand, and En felt the same tug on his spirit - though now it felt as if a shark had latched itself to his chest and was doing its best to tear him apart. Ribbons of misty light streamed from their bodies, flowing towards Thanos’s own. He absorbed parts of their Power Primordial - parts of their souls; En felt _something_ sliding along his consciousness, slimy and cold. It felt like death itself.

A flaming eye.

“You will never know life,” Thanos hissed. “You will never know life, or death, or peace, so long as you stand against me.”

En was shivering. This was not a game. This could never be a game. He was called the Grandmaster for a reason: he excelled at creating games, pitting life against life, victory and defeat balanced in his hands. He had focused his primordial energy on creating the most complex and gratifying games that the universe had ever seen, and that kept him alive for eons.

But this? This was not a contest that he could rig. And he knew that there was no reason for him to be here - he had no skills that could realistically help, and once Thanos found that out, he was toast. He was fucking _toast._

He froze.

Unless.

In his mind, he reached out. Softly probed the barrier between himself and the _other_ in his mind. It was surprisingly solid, in the way that a massive dirt wall holding back a dragon in a thunderstorm is solid, but it was enough. He could work with that.

He’d have to.

“This is what you will do.”

Thanos turned to each of them. “Possessor, Astronomer,” he said, his voice making mockeries of their names. The room plunged into icy coldness. “You will combine your knowledge to hunt for traces of the Infinity stones. Collector -” He sharply nudged Taneleer’s ribs with the toe of his boot, and Taneleer wheezed. “You’ll finally have to do some grunt work and go… _collecting._ Wherever your brothers say you must go, you _will_ go. The Obliterator and the Champion,” the Titan sneered, “will be your bodyguards.

“And you,” he added, turning to the Judicator. “Well, you just have to keep them in line.” He grimaced; En realized belatedly that it was supposed to be a smile. “That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“No,” said the Nameless One, sourly. En stifled a nervous giggle. She was always the hardass of all of them. Always playing by the book. So boring.

“And the Grandmaster…”

Thanos turned to him, and the weight of his calculating stare made En’s heart stop. All too late, he summoned a pleasant smile and an affably-raised eyebrow, ignoring how every billion-year-old-instinct he had made him want to turn and run in the other direction.

“War is a game,” said Thanos, “is it not?”

The Titan grinned. _Abort mission, abort mission,_ En’s brain screamed. “You,” said Thanos, “will command my armies. I forsee conflict in the future.” His humorless grin took on a sharp, bloody edge. “As they say… anything worth having is worth fighting for, right?”

“Right,” En said, with false cheer. “Great. Absolutely. Excellent.”

The flames in Thanos’s eyes burned ever brighter. There were no longer any whites or pupils - just a solid mass of flame, broken only by slitted, catlike pupils. The tendril of _other_ writhed in his mind.

En Dwi Gast crossed his fingers behind his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a recipe for sadness. Listen to the track "The Avengers" from the first Avengers movie soundtrack. Then, right afterwards, listen to the track "Infinity War" from the iw soundtrack. Guaranteed emotional whiplash and tears. The contrast is painful.
> 
> I'm a fucking machine, yo. Idk how the fuck these chapters are coming out so fast, but it's happening - probably helps that I've outlined them for once lmao. And happy birthday to Steve Rogers! During my local fireworks show tonight, there was a massive thunderhead parked over the stadium, and we kept seeing lightning strikes between fireworks being let off. Thor is celebrating Steve's birthday too. Yay blond bearded superhero solidarity! *pumps fist*
> 
> And... did nobody seriously catch the new plot thread I threw in last chapter? Eeesh that's gonna come back to bite you all squarely in the ass in the distant future. Sorry.
> 
> Chapter title comes from the barrow-wight's song from Fellowship of the Ring:
> 
> "Cold be hand and heart and bone,/ and cold be sleep under stone: never more to wake on stony bed,/ never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead./ In the black wind the stars shall die, / and still on gold here let them lie,/ till the dark lord lifts his hand/ over dead sea and withered land." 
> 
> Very emo. Very depressing. Very... chilling
> 
> Exchange kudos and comments for new chapters. Bartering is a surprisingly effective economic system. Positive feedback is like oxygen for me, guys. See you later. (Sooner, rather than later, if you tell me what you think.) Yell with/at me on tumblr at www.thor-20.tumblr.com.


	10. Strategery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The metal cup warmed briefly against his arm. Clint scowled and looked out the window again, past the streaks, out over the hazy jungle and the white-bright sky. His mind whirled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't feel so great about this chapter, but I'm trying to stick to a weekly update schedule. Sorry about any inconsistencies or wonky things. This whole fic is completely unbetaed, by the way.

When Clint left Stark’s hospital room, he immediately made a beeline for the west wing - specifically, the coffee machine in his suite kitchen. He’d drained the dregs of the refill he’d gotten from Shuri’s lab, and exhaustion was catching up with him. Last night’s all-nighter was a shit idea. He sauntered down the hall and through an outside door, softly whistling “Africa” by Toto - okay, bad joke, but he was tired and really couldn’t resist. Once he got some caffeine in him, and _maybe_ after he took a nap, he’d feel better.

Clint shuffled into his kitchen and started the coffee machine. Stifling a yawn, he pried off the lid of his stolen coffee cup and rinsed it out with water, careful not to get the bandage on his hand wet. Clouds of steam billowed from the cup, smelling vaguely of vodka and black pepper.

“Stop looking so smug,” Clint muttered into the cup.

**BOTH THE ORDER AND THE PRECONDITION ARE PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE.**

A puff of steam went directly into his face, and he grimaced. “I’ll dump you in the garbage disposal, mark my words.”

At the bottom of the coffee cup, the Mind Stone pulsed, with sunny yellow light.

* * *

Loki had a scepter to hold it. Vision had… himself. All Clint had was a stolen vibranium coffee mug.

If that sentence wasn’t representative of his entire life so far, he didn’t know what was.

**FOCUS, CLINT.**

_Suck my entire asshole._

**THAT IS PHYSI-**

_Physically impossible, I get it. Fuck off, I’m busy._

**ALSO PHYSICALLY -**

_Fuck OFF._

Clint took a long drink and slammed the coffee cup down. The Mind Stone let out a vicious snarl as his fingers pulled away. The moment his skin left the metal, the world was suddenly muffled, his senses dulled. The constant stream of data pouring through his mind stopped. Clint slumped back in his chair and took in the world, as it was meant to be. It was empty. Dull, cold.

Steam rose from the coffee spout, in highly disgruntled swirls.

Slowly, Clint rolled up his right sleeve. He laced his fingers together on the desk, and let the bare skin of his arm touch the coffee cup.

The world slammed into him.

He could hear the hum of the noiseless central air system, now as loud as a bumblebee right by his ear. One corner of his desk was 3.7 degrees lower than the rest. Lucky was sleeping under the bed; his snores were like a semi-trailer barrelling past. The window had a faint layer of grime on it - judging from wind patterns in the area and local weather, the window had been cleaned approximately two days ago, by a window-cleaning bot that left nearly invisible streaks on the window -

The coffee sat like motor oil on his tongue.

 **TOO MUCH?** the Stone whispered, soft and mocking, and the scent of vibranium - like spearmint and dust - seared his nostrils.

Clint’s nails dug into the palms of his hands. He could see every line, every freckle, every scar, in sharp microscopic detail. “No,” he whispered. “Yes. A bit. Dial it back.” The hyperfocused world ebbed away slightly, until all he felt was a mental sharpness just above a caffeinated buzz.

The metal cup warmed briefly against his arm. Clint scowled and looked out the window again, past the streaks, out over the hazy jungle and the white-bright sky. His mind _whirled._

 

...Of course, it only whirled for about five minutes before he started to get bored. Clint sighed and put his head on the desk. He had a headache. The Mind Stone was riding his brain like a stuntman on a dirtbike, helping him come up with a plan for dealing with the Ring - and damn it, he was _tired._  He felt swept along by it, like some idiot in an inflatable tube tied to the back of a speedboat. His mind was running at the speed of light.

This must have been what was like to be Tony Stark. Though he felt like he was cheating, like all he was doing was listening to someone whisper in his ear, and he parroted what they said. An evil adviser. Wormtongue to Theoden.

**THAT COMPARISON IS INACCURATE AND INSULTING.**

“Fuck off,” he said sourly.

He sighed and leaned back into his chair. The Stone was wearing on him. Every time he heard its voice - soft, sibilant, genderless and formless - his skin crawled. He had never really gotten over Loki. The presence in the back of his mind, clinging to him, was coldly indifferent and aloof - nothing like Loki’s then-unhinged madness, but it still gave him chills.

It was a small price to pay. He was sick of being useless, when the world was falling apart. A bow and arrow wouldn’t be able to destroy Thanos.

He was _sick_ of it. He couldn’t give this up. Not now.

Clint dragged a hand over his face, propped his chin on it, and pulled out his phone. He needed a distraction.

It looked like Shuri had dropped a bomb on the United Nations. He whistled faintly between his teeth and scrolled through the headlines. In the pictures, Shuri looked like a harried, haggard mess, jetlagged and groggy - though still regal, with a deadly set to her jaw that made her look like she was about to punch someone in the face. Okoye and another member of the Dora Milaje flanked her, which probably helped, but still.

He scanned the headlines again and cringed.

QUEEN OF WAKANDA STUNS GENERAL ASSEMBLY

WHAT _ARE_ THE INFINITY STONES?

“I HONESTLY DON’T KNOW”; CAN WAKANDA HELP THE WORLD RECOVER FROM THE DUSTING?

QUEEN SHURI FLIPS OFF SECRETARY OF STATE??? #ICONIC

Wait, what.

Clint clicked on the Buzzfeed article and snickered. Someone had snapped a picture with Shuri and Ross at opposite ends of the shot; Ross was glaring at her, and she was glaring at Ross, and the other representatives between them looked really uncomfortable. And, yep - Shuri’s middle finger was carefully  arranged on her Starbucks cup, pointed directly in Ross’s direction.

Man, Ross looked _pissed._ The CIA agent with him - also unfortunately named Ross - was clearly stifling giggles. Amazing. Clint would’ve loved to be a fly on the wall for that meeting. Most UN meetings were boring as hell, but this kind of drama? Hilarious.

Though Shuri had spilled everything about the Infinity Stones to the entire fucking world. Clint didn’t need the Mind Stone to tell him that it was a bad idea. People might start connecting the dots. Wakanda had known this before the whole rest of the world did; it was only a short jump from there to assume that Wakanda had them.

Shuri had better know what she was doing. Clint reached for the coffee mug.

His fingers touched it just as a sonic boom rippled across the sky. Clint looked out the window and saw a jet - Queen Shuri’s, probably - streak past, as if reading the headlines about her had summoned it.

**TALK TO HER.**

Clint’s gaze snapped to the coffee cup. “What? Why?”

A web of light spiraled through his mind: points, data, procedures, ideas. **SHE IS THE QUEEN OF WAKANDA,** the Stone whispered. **YOU WILL BE LISTENED TO IF SHE APPROVES OF YOUR PLAN.**

Clint hummed thoughtfully. He drummed his fingers on the table. That did make sense; they were on her turf, and having her in his corner would be worth it. The idea of… you know, taking the initiative and making this plan of his serious was kind of uncomfortable to him. With the Avengers, he’d never been the mastermind of anything. The strategist was always Phil or Natasha, then Steve or Stark or even _Thor_ that one time in Colombia. Granted, Clint was best at thinking on his feet - salvaging plans when they went apeshit - but he sucked at coming up with original ones. He was just a dude with a bow and arrow.

**NOT ANYMORE.**

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, sipping from the mug. The Mind Stone was hot enough that it kept his coffee warm for him. It was a weird use for it, but it worked. And the Stone kept its complaining to a minimum, thanks to Clint’s threats to throw it in the garbage disposal and/or into the Mariana Trench. It was a weird symbiotic relationship. Was it a symbiotic relationship? He was getting, but what was he _giving_?

**GO ON, BEFORE SHE LEAVES.**

Clint huffed and scooted his chair back. The legs caught on the carpet, and he pitched backwards, hitting the floor with a _thud._

**SMOOTH.**

_Thanks._

* * *

He was waiting for her at the landing pad. Lucky had to stay in his room. The poor dog was pushing nine years old, and wasn’t up for following him up and down stairs and down long hallways anymore. It was good to have his loyal dog with him, though. A reminder of home. A best friend. It helped.

Up close, Shuri looked even more like a walking corpse, and the Dora Milaje with her didn’t look much better. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing his head.

“Hello,” she said heavily. She tilted her head towards the doors, and he followed her through. Okoye gave him a narrow-eyed glare; he nodded politely, making sure to keep his free hand in plain sight. The other one held onto his coffee cup with a white-knuckled grip, the bandage pinching at his skin.

“Mr. Barton, if you have anything to say to me, I’m afraid it’ll have to wait,” Shuri said.

“Oh.” He bit back his disappointment. Honestly, he hadn’t expected to be listened to; Shuri looked like death warmed over. Up close, it was hard to believe that she was only seventeen. “It’s about the Ring,” he said anyway, when the coffee cup warmed uncomfortably under his fingers. “I came up with some ideas about how we can deal with it, I can tell you about them later.”

To his surprise, Shuri said, “That sounds great, actually. Here -” She turned around and tapped a few buttons on her phone. Clint blinked as the phone in his pocket buzzed. “Type it up and send it to me,” she said. “I’d still like to hear what you have.”

Clint raised his eyebrows. “You’re sure? I mean - you don’t have to, I was just curious if you wanted to know -”

She waved a hand and gave him a tired smile. “Clint,” she said. “I know you worked with SHIELD. You’re still alive after all that. Your plans must be worth something. You seem like a smart guy.” Clint brushed imaginary dirt off his shoulders, and she snickered. “You just look like you know what you’re doing, you know?”

“I’m just doing my best,” Clint dismissed.

“Aren’t we all.”

They reached an intersection and went different ways. Shuri faced him to wave goodbye; Clint walked backwards and gave her a jaunty salute. He promptly tripped on the hem of his pants, and nearly pitched headfirst into the wall. Shuri snorted with laughter, and Okoye rolled her eyes.

As Clint left the intersection behind, he sipped thoughtfully from his coffee. So that was a no-go. Almost. At least she was willing to listen, which was a start. He hated doing this - chasing after her approval like some kind of teenager - but he didn’t want to feel completely useless. And after they’d all left Stark’s hospital room, he hadn’t had a chance to talk with Nat or Steve or anybody about what to do. He was a little short on options.

The Mind Stone gave him an impatient shove. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, and cleared his throat. He closed his eyes and let the Stone seep in.

Since he’d grabbed it on the plane, it had developed a habit of hijacking half his brain, while the other half - the _real_ half - of Clint just came along for the ride and tried not to panic. The idiot-on-an-inner-tube analogy really applied here; it was that nonstop panic when you saw the boat take a sharp turn, and you knew the inertia would ripple down the line and launch you out of the tube into the water.

Yeah. The Mind Stone was cool, but he was _panicking._

Last time he’d come in contact with it, Ultron was using it in South Korea - and before that, it’d been used on him to bind him to Loki’s will. Though, now, the power was in his hands. He swirled the coffee cup in his hands and heard the stone clanking inside. _Literally,_ in his hands.

The vibranium coffee mug had been a hunch - all his own, which he was inordinately proud of. Vision had had the stone in his head for the longest time, and he was made mostly of vibranium, so it was a reasonable assumption. The Mind Stone did burn through the insulation, but Clint had rinsed out the molten slag so he just had a vibranium shell for the stone. And the Stone kept the coffee warm, too.

God, what kind of life was he living now?

This felt like a villain origin story. Clinton Francis Barton, also known as Hawkeye, committing crimes with his Coffee Cup of Doom and his sidekick/overlord the Mind Stone. How did that work, anyway? Could he shoot energy beams out of the spout, like Vision? Does he clock someone over the head with it to control their mind? It was like he’d been beaten almost to death in an alley with a baseball bat, and then the baseball bat was given to him, and now he’s got a bloody baseball bat that could kill people with and now he just needs to resist the urge to do so, especially since the baseball bat has basically glued itself to his hand and is convincing him that he can’t put it down or else someone will steal it and fuck shit up.

Okay, not the best analogy.

But yeah. There was a line. Clint just needed to figure out where it was, and how not to cross it.

**WATCH THE DOOR.**

Clint flinched violently, realizing that the door to his suite was literally inches away from his nose. _Thanks for the warning,_ he thought.

**YOU’RE WELCOME.**

Clint reached for the doorknob, and paused. The door was made from dead varnished acacia. Now the Mind Stone’s power surged through the rest of him, not latching on in the way Loki’s power did, but simply… there. He remembered, in detail too sharp to be an ordinary memory, a time before Ultron where he crammed an old Iron Man helmet onto his head. He was drunk. Thor had dared him. The moment he put it on, the HUD started throwing information at him like the Hash-slinging Slasher. It was a nightmare. It was just like this. It was intoxicating, it was beautiful, it was _terrifying._

Clint went in and locked the door behind him. At the foot of the bed, Lucky lifted his head and let out a friendly _boof._  “Hey, there,” Clint said, reaching down to scratch Lucky’s ears. He threw himself onto the bed and grabbed the tablet. The stone whispered something about spies and records and foreign technology, but he set the Travel Mug of Doom on the nightstand. The HUD was off, the helmet tossed away. The silence pressed on his ears.

He opened up a blank document and typed what he remembered, word for word. Without the mug in his hand, he shouldn’t have been able to remember everything that he and the Stone had talked about. Odd.

At least it kept his mind busy. At least it cut down on the thought of his wife and children, dust in the wind.

Lucky whined faintly and shuffled around. A few moments later, he began to snore.

* * *

He woke to a gentle buzzing and the stench of black pepper.

Clint’s eyes cracked open and saw carpet. He muttered something incoherent and let his eyes close again, rolling onto his bed. Somehow he’d gotten onto the floor. He was on the wrong side of 40, and it was doing bad things to his back. “Godfucking fuck,” he grumbled.

On the _floor._ He hated everything.

It took a few tries for him to sit up. When he did, he looked across the rumpled sheets at the window. The sun was… wrong. It was supposed to be brighter, if it was still around noon. “What fucking time is it,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. He propped his chin on the edge of the mattress and glared at the dim window. Was it morning? He’d just wanted to take a nap, after he regurgitated his plan in numbered-list form into an email and sent it to Shuri.

Hell, he must have fallen asleep. If it was morning the next day… damn, that meant he’d slept for more than twelve hours. He hasn’t slept like that since his early SHIELD days, when after missions he’d crash for a day or more. Phil would keep SHIELD off his back while he crashed for hours on whatever comfy surface he could find. Sometimes it was the foldout bed in Phil’s office, if he was getting desperate.

God, he missed him.

The tablet on his bed buzzed. Clint hauled himself off the floor and onto the bed, picking up the tablet. “Shit,” he hissed. There were seven or eight unread messages - from Shuri, it looked like. It was 9:23; he’d slept for nearly an entire _day._

__-I read it. It’s pretty solid. Mind if we go over this tomorrow morning?_ _

__-_ _ _Mr. Barton, it’s tomorrow morning. You up?_

_-ay yo Barton, wake up_

_-fine, i’ll just show it to everyone then_

_-We’re in the council room - same as last time_

_-b a r t o n_

_-we started without you. Enjoy your beauty sleep :D_

The message he’d just gotten read, _you didn’t edit it, did you. tony’s shitting himself trying to keep from laughing. get down here before he tears his stitches._ Clint groaned and hauled himself out of bed.

It took him two tries to get out of his room. He first ran smack into the door - even having slept eighteen hours, he felt like shit - opened it, ran back in to get his coffee cup and fill it, and tripped on the hem of his pants on the way out. He shuffled down the hall, holding his pants up with his free hand. Clint didn’t quite realize, until he hit the main hub of the palace and got a scandalized look from a passing Wakandan, that he was shirtless and wearing some loose Wakandan pants that he didn’t remember putting on the night before.

 **YOU SHOULD GO BACK AND PUT ON A SHIRT,** the Mind Stone suggested.

Clint let out a jaw-cracking yawn and gingerly sipped his hot coffee. _You,_ he thought at the presence in his mind. _Garbage disposal. A romance for the ages._

**THERE IS A HIGH PROBABILITY THAT THE PEOPLE ASSEMBLED WILL NOT TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY WITHOUT A SHIRT.**

_There’s a high probability that I have abs of steel - oh, wait, I do. I do situps. I fucking_ farmed _for two years. Come on, give me some credit._

The council room’s doors loomed before him; the two Dora Milaje flanking them gave him unimpressed looks that nearly froze him in his tracks. “Sorry I’m late,” he panted, skidding to a halt. He was in socks and almost crashed into the door. Apparently he’d taken off his shoes, too. It was like the morning after a wild night of drinking.

The women did not respond, merely pushing open the door. He winced apologetically at them and strolled in. He met the incredulous, amused, and/or unimpressed looks of just about everybody important. Hoo, boy. He really wished he’d put on a shirt.

Clint suddenly felt a twinge at the back of his neck, and the world _warped._

People moved in slow motion, now, a faint haze outlining their features; information zipped through his mind at the speed of light as he scanned people. Briefly, he wondered if this was how Pietro Maximoff lived his life after HYDRA got to him - in slow motion, able to see everything in the blink of an eye.

Man, it was a tense room. Steve was bracketed by a murderous-looking Kraglin and Nebula; Rhodey sat across from him, and Natasha had taken the end of the table opposite Shuri. Thor and Bruce sat together, Thor closest to Shuri, and Tony Stark sat in a wheelchair between Bruce and Nebula. The Stone catalogued every one of Stark’s injuries; Clint winced. Wong sat at Shuri’s left, across from Thor; he looked like hell warmed over, but he was munching his way through a package of pecan shortbread cookies.

Rocket and Okoye were nowhere to be seen. Clint scanned the slow-motion room again and sighed. There were no other aliens here except for Kraglin and Nebula. That meant the Guardians were dead. Okoye was probably off making sure the guy didn’t kill himself or something. Poor guy. Holy shit.

“Is this everyone?” he said out loud. He self-consciously scratched his chin.

Steve nodded sharply. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice croaky with disuse.

Clint retreated into the Mind Stone. This time he looked at the unseen gaps, the raw torn edges in the air between people. No Wanda. No T’Challa. No Vision. No Bucky. No Sam. No wonder Steve looked like hell.

No Sam. It physically hurt Clint to think that. God, no Sam.

“There’s our mastermind,” Shuri drawled, trying not to smile and failing. Clint saluted her with his coffee cup and took the empty seat between Rhodes and Nat. Rhodes looked him over, huffed with amusement, and looked away. Nat jokingly threw her jacket at him.

“No, please, God, don’t put that on,” Stark ordered, from the other side of the table. The billionaire flashed him a slightly-subdued grin. “You got it, you flaunt it. I see you’ve been keeping busy.”

His voice was light, but Clint detected a faint edge beneath it. Typical Stark. But before Clint could rise to the bait, all he could see was shaking hands and wide, vulnerable eyes, a heart monitor beeping far too fast. He settled for a grin and looked down at his mug.

It was then that he noticed the slim packets sitting in front of everyone. Rhodes slid one to him, and he saw his own words at the top: “ _Super Awesome Strategery for Unfucking the Ring.”_ Strategery. Damn. He really should have copyedited this before he sent it to Shuri. He didn’t think that she’d actually take him seriously. That felt good. Really good. The remnants of shock on the faces around him, though, kind of dulled the edge. Come on. He wasn’t a complete idiot. Maybe the Mind Stone was right, he should have doubled back to get a shirt.

“So, Clint.”

Clint glanced down the table at the Queen.

“Would you mind going over this with us?” she asked. “We have already skimmed it, but it would be great to hear it from you.” Shuri looked down at the packet. “Without the… seven extra contingencies per step, in case something went wrong,” she added slowly. Clint grinned.

“Went a little overboard with the army of the dead, there, pal,” Rhodes muttered. Clint rolled his eyes.

He picked up his packet and glanced around the table. Everyone was angled towards him, waiting for him to speak. Man, that felt good. “So,” he said, drawing out the word. “We got Stark, Nebula and Kraglin in on the loop, right?”

“All looped in,” Stark confirmed. “Still think it’s a load of horseshit, though, but I’ll take what I can get.”

He was still giving Clint a weird look. Clint wasn’t going to challenge it. Half of him wanted to give as good as he got, but the logical half - augmented by the Stone - told him that the likelihood of actually winning an argument with Stark without it devolving into another Civil War was really low. He’s holding the cup. The cup was talking.

Jesus fuck, his life was weird.

Clint flicked through his packet, wincing at all the profanity and spelling errors. Suddenly being a genius just gave him more knowledge, not a better vehicle for it. “Sorry about…” He waved his hand vaguely. “All this. It’s not a polished product, okay, I wasn’t writing my thesis.”

“Yeah, how long had you been up when you wrote this?” Bruce asked. A smile played around his lips. Next to Bruce, Thor yawned; one of his eyes was pointing straight to the side. Clint gave him a look and gestured towards his eye; Thor grimaced, popped the eye out with his thumb, and put it in a water glass.

Everyone groaned. “Watch yourself, Mad-Eye,” Rhodes called down the table. Thor shrugged helplessly, and swirled the cup like a wine glass. Shuri cleared her throat and gave Clint a pointed look.

“Okay, okay,” Clint said, “enough chit-chat.” The table looked at him again. “So - here’s the paraphrased version. Without the contingency plans. Let’s ignore those, even _I_ don’t know what went into them. This is what would work, with no interference - no ring being stolen, or Wakanda going up in flames, or Thanos divebombing the Earth _again._

“One: get everyone up to speed on Lord of the Rings. And we mean _everyone._  Space aliens?” He looked at Kraglin and Nebula. “Yep. Sentient raccoon? ...Wherever he is. Absolutely. Even the ones who aren’t full-blooded nerds -” He glanced at Bruce, and Bruce gave him a judgmental glare that would work a lot better if he had glasses. “- need a refresher. That means movie night.”

That was a nostalgia trip. They didn’t have nearly enough of those back in the day; they could never schedule one, especially once Steve and Natasha moved to DC… and Thor went back to Asgard… and Clint was with his family… yeah. They kinda bailed on that. Only had one or two while they were all at the Tower together, and even then it was kind of awkward. They’d had to start believing they could be a team. That didn’t really come until just before Ultron, and then it all went to hell after Sokovia.

“Movie night?” Steve repeated, and not happily. “Clint - we can’t sit around watching _movies_ when we have to do something. We can’t just hide and -”

“Steve, with all due respect,” Clint said, “fuck that.” Steve recoiled slightly. “We have a weapon on our hands that could destroy Thanos a thousand times over. We need to understand it. I care about this as much as you do, but we gotta take every break we can get. Let me finish before you get all up in arms, okay?”

Stark whistled softly. Steve’s mouth tightened, but he fell silent; Clint felt bad for a moment, but the moment quickly faded. “Right. So. First we watch the movies, and then read the books. Or Sparknotes it. The movies are pretty damn accurate, but we’ll still have to go over the books, ‘cause they’re as close to Odin’s word that we’re going to get.”

“You could just ask me,” Thor offered. “I remember everything my father told me about the Ring.”

“That’s step two,” Clint said. Thor inclined his head. “Once everyone can recite the plot of _Lord of the Rings_ in their sleep, we start branching out. Thor, you write down everything your father told you. Nebula, Kraglin, any space tales you might’ve heard - even the bullshit ones - write ‘em down. It was a galaxy-wide conspiracy. Everybody’s got a hand in this pie.”

“I can help,” Kraglin said, leaning back in his chair. He tapped the point of his red arrow on the table; with each _click,_ Steve blinked a bit harder than was necessary. “Warp gets boring sometimes; I probably got something stored on the drives somewhere.”

“Do us a favor and let us borrow it, okay?” Clint said. Kraglin nodded once.

“Great. So then,” he continued, “we compare notes. Pull out everything that’s similar between stories. That happens a lot - you get adaptations of fairy tales and shit that completely change the tone of the story, but you’ll always have - you know, a poison apple and seven dwarves, or a pumpkin carriage. If we find the things that are similar, that might hint at the truth.”

“You see that in propaganda, sometimes,” Natasha added. “The best lies are the ones based in truth. It’s possible that Odin laid out the key points of whatever happened, filled the space between them with mush, and let the universe have the resulting mess. Only the consistent stuff survived - and the consistent stuff is what matters.”

Clint gave her a friendly nudge with his elbow. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Of course.”

There was a flurry of shuffling papers, as everyone turned the page to Clint’s next point. “So, then we go to the books,” Wong said. “Finally. I hope I didn’t dredge those out of the Mirror Dimension for nothing.”

“You can store shit there?” Stark asked skepticaly.

“You know what that is?” Wong asked, in the same tone.

“Of course I do, I saw it in action - I just thought -”

“Tony, not now,” Steve said wearily. Stark huffed a sigh and turned pointedly away from Steve. Kraglin’s arrow hit the table with enough force to dent the table and rattle Thor’s eyeball in the glass; Steve’s spine immediately straightened.

“That is _mahogany_ ,” Bruce snapped. Rhodes snorted.

“Very funny. Yes, we run a translation program on the Ancient One’s ungodly chicken scratch,” Clint said. “She had the Ring for a long-ass time. It’s possible that she knew a lot about the Ring - maybe even more than the rest of the galaxy, maybe even more than _Odin.”_ Thor nodded slowly, which surprised Clint. It had been three years, but last he checked, Thor had been singing Odin’s praises and defending the honor of his family, et cetera. Something must’ve changed when Asgard was blown up. “Hell, she might have been old enough to see the original war.”

“She couldn’t have been.”

Clint raised his eyebrows at Thor. “Why not?”

Thor propped his arms on the table and said, “That war happened when my father was younger than I am now -”

“Which is?”

“Fifteen hundred years.”

“Looking good,” Stark commented.

“Thanks,” Thor said, completely seriously. Bruce patted his shoulder - or, since Thor towered over him, even when they sat, his bicep. “My father lived nearly five thousand years before he passed. Like, three days ago. The Ancient One, if she was of Midgardian blood, would not have lived even a fifth of that.” Wong muttered something that made Thor and Bruce stare, but Clint couldn’t pick it up. Even the enhanced senses of the Mind Stone left him hanging.

“Okay, then that’s out,” Clint said. “We’ll still look at the texts. Maybe her chicken scratch is notes, correcting Tolkien’s work to what really happened. Maybe it’s a code. Nobody knows, but we’ll figure it out. Wong -”

The sorcerer looked up from his cookies.

“You probably knew her better than anyone here,” Clint said. “If you’ve got anything to decipher codes, or any keys that she might have left lying around, then that’d be great. Shuri, if your program to analyze the text and find a pattern is working, then we should get on it.”

“It’s… a work in progress,” Shuri said, grimacing. She tapped the packet in front of her. “I incorporated your ideas into the rough draft of my program.”

“You did?”

She waved a hand. “Don’t sound so surprised,” she said. “I’d been thinking the same thing. I already have a dictionary for every language on Earth with an alphabet; we might need a supplement of alien languages -”

“Gotcha,” said Kraglin. “I got an almost complete collection of galactic languages on my ship.”

Shuri sent a finger gun his way. “Great, we’ll talk later,” she said. Kraglin, surprisingly, didn’t look fazed by the gesture. “Bruce and Rocket noticed the letter fragments in our first meeting; we’ll take that and run with it. For example -”

She grabbed one of the beads on her bracelets, and a hologram flickered to life above her palm. “Here’s a letter I found on the first page of _The Hobbit.”_

Clint craned his neck to look. It looked like a jumbled mess - but then Shuri’s finger glided over the letter, separating it into quadrants. It was all clear. It was four fragments of individual letters that didn’t look related at all.

“We have four different languages here,” Nakia said. She hadn’t spoken a single word for the entire meeting; everyone listened to her now. Her voice was soft and hoarse, her eyes still a bit red. The Wakandans had taken the loss of their king particularly hard. “There’s what could be the English letter ‘k,’, something in… the Elvish dialect Sindarin, a Tamil letter -”

“And a Xandarian one,” Kraglin interrupted. “Bottom left.” Inexplicably, Clint and Bruce looked at each other; they’d both heard the similarity between Sindarin and Xandarian. Was that a coincidence?

“Yeah, that,” Nakia said. “Other letters I’ve seen are different, with many alphabets and different combinations - but it’s the same quadrant system.” She glanced at Wong. “We don’t know for sure,” she said to him, “but if you can find a key somewhere to determine what to do, that would help a lot.”

“It’s likely that she kept it in her head,” Wong said grimly. “She’s been dead for over a year.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Clint said, giving Shuri a pointed look. “The quadrant thing is important. We’ll brainstorm this later, with...” He looked around; only Bruce, Thor, Kraglin, Shuri and Tony looked remotely interested, but that was okay. Too many people, and it would turn into a shitshow. “...with whoever’s interested.”

“Ooh, pick me, pick me,” Stark said, in a monotone.

Steve took a deep breath. “Tony, this is _serious_ -”

“Steve, shut _up,_ ” Rhodes hissed.

Clint winced. “Gonna have to agree with the Colonel on this one, Steve, sorry,” he said. “We’ve all got our coping mechanisms.” If it was possible, Steve looked even guiltier than before.

“I resemble that remark,” said Stark.

“Good, it’s working.”

Clint flipped to the last page of the packet. “Right, so once we’ve got all sides of the story,” he went on, “we figure out what to do with the damn thing. Because propaganda? Bullshit. Eyewitness accounts? ...Sometimes bullshit. If _Lord of the Rings_ is just space propaganda, there’s a high chance that the Ring’s actually safe to use, and -”

“That would be a disaster,” Thor said firmly. His stern words were undercut by him fishing around in Bruce’s water glass for his eye. Bruce was very carefully not looking at him. “An absolute disaster. Ten out of ten would not recommend. It would burn you to ash.”

“That’s just what daddie-o  told you,” Stark pointed out. “He had an agenda. Take it from me, dads with agendas are usually full of shit.” From the corner of his eye, Clint saw Steve frown. “How do you know that that’s even true?”

“Because the Ancient One tried it on once.”

Silence. Everyone turned to stare at Wong, who was solemnly finishing the last of his cookies. “She had scars,” he said. He ran his hand along the inside of his left arm. “She hid them under spells, but I knew she had them. I was told to never let anyone wear the Ring, because it nearly tore her apart - even with all her magic.”

“She could never fix them?” Rhodes asked.

Wong shook his head. “In all her hundreds of years, she’d never been able to make the scars go away. And she was the most powerful sorcerer that I've ever known.” He grimaced, and reached for some iced tea in a plastic water bottle. “Except for Stephen Strange.” He sat back in his chair, looking suddenly morose.

The silence following Wong’s words could be cut with a knife. “So,” Clint said slowly, “I think that about covers what I thought would be good. Any questions?”

Across from him, Steve cleared his throat. “Why,” he asked, “do we have to watch the movies and stuff?”

“Is this because you’ve never seen them?” Nat said, voice teasing.

There were groans from nearly every Earth native at the table. “ _Blasphemy,_ ” Shuri groaned, putting her head on the table. Nakia elbowed her gently.

“No, I’ve never seen them,” Steve said wearily. He looked at Clint again, slightly exasperated. “Why bother with that, if we can just look at the Ancient One’s notes?”

The coffee cup warmed beneath his fingers, and Clint felt a slight nudge at the back of his mind. He ignored it - the Stone wanted to take a piece out of Steve for some reason, but he couldn’t do that. Not while Steve still had blood crusted in his beard and ash under his fingernails.

He settled for leaning forward and saying, “Bro. Seriously.”

“I don’t get why.” Steve ran a grimy hand over his face and added, “I’m sorry, if I can’t catch up to where you are - I’m just tired.”

“I get it,” Clint said simply. “I know. So here’s why: the Ancient One’s the expert on the Ring - the Who, if you will.” He ticked off one of his fingers. “But the _story...._ That gives us the what, why, how and where.”

He counted off the rest. “ _What_ to do - destroy or use,” he said. “Classic Council of Elrond stuff. _Why_ we need to destroy or use it. _How_ to use it without dying - or how to destroy it. And _where,_ if it needs to be destroyed. Mount Doom was a thing. We need to know if we need to find our own special Mount Doom to chuck this thing into.”

“So everything’s important,” said Stark. Clint nodded. “Even the films.”

“Yes,” Nakia said. “There are lots of things hidden in even the most innocent of stories, if you know where to look. If you peel back the layers. The -”

She paused, and blinked. “Are you okay?” she said lowly, looking at Shuri.

Shuri had an uncomfortable look on her face, as if she was trying not to laugh. “Something you’d like to share with the class, Queen Shuri?” Clint said.

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Ogres have layers,” she whispered through her fingers.

Clint cackled and thumped his fist on the table. Stark groaned and put his head on the table. “Oh, my _God,_ ” Bruce muttered, covering his face.

“Oy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Shuri said, wiping her eyes. There was something sad in her smile, and Clint had to look away. “Not the time. I apologize.”

“We all need a laugh,” Stark said into the table. “Thanks for that.”

Shuri asked Wong a question, but Clint didn’t hear it; he was staring at Stark, feeling vaguely uneasy. Last he saw him was on the news, after some kind of Stark Industries product launch; he’d been all proper and polished, the quintessential billionaire. (Look at him, using big words.)

Now.... he was a shell. Something was wrong. Clint had seen that hollow look in his own eyes every time he looked in the damn mirror.He needed to _know._

Stark suddenly met his eyes.

The fog vanished from them, revealing something sharp and inquisitive. Clint blinked, taken aback by the sudden attention. He settled for a subtle jerk of his head towards the door. The billionaire nodded and backed his chair - some sleek and snazzy electric number - away from the table. “I don’t know about you all,” he said to the room, “but I’m calling it a day. Really feeling it in the ol’ stab wound. Hey - Your Highness, if you’ve got a private theater here or something, we can get movie night set up…”

Movie night. God. A weight sank into Clint’s chest, and he looked down, tears pricking his eyes. Natasha gave him a soft pat on the shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?” she said softly.

“I’ll live,” Clint said. “I’ll… I’ll live.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Stark revved the wheels of his wheelchair a bit. Clint didn’t even know that was possible. “See you in a bit, Nat,” he said, standing up and taking his coffee mug. Natasha gave him a faint smile, but her eyes were slightly questioning. He grimaced apologetically and slunk away. Stark was just passing through the doors, one hand on the joystick of the wheelchair. Clint wove around Rhodes, who was cracking a joke about invalids. He’d make a joke, too, but…

 **BAD IDEA,** said the Mind Stone. Its speech was growing shorter, less formal. More human. Clint should have appreciated it, but it was easier to get mad at something that sounded like a machine.

_“You gotta watch your back with this guy. There's a chance he's gonna break it.”_

He saw the flicker of the Raft’s lights, the bars on his cell. Stark in an immaculate suit. The faint twitch of his face as he turned away - something Clint hadn’t seen then, but the Mind Stone called it forth in crystal clear detail. God, he was an asshole. He was surprised the man hadn’t decked him for that the moment it came out of his mouth.

Stark broke free of the traffic jam near the door and sped off down the hall. Clint followed close behind. They wended and wove through the halls of Birnin Zana, so long that Clint wondered if he actually knew where they were going. If they had a destination at all.  “So,” he said conversationally, when they turned a last corner. They were in what looked like a little-used maintenance hallway, with few doors and little signs of human life. He heard soft whirs and clanks within the walls, and wondered what lay behind them.

“So,” said Stark. He swiveled his wheelchair to face him. “What do you want?” he said. He sounded as tired as he looked. At this angle, Clint could clearly see the grey in his hair, every speck of dirt and grime that the doctors hadn’t scrubbed away.

“I just want to know what I missed,” Clint said quietly. “What happened, how you’ve been.”

Stark’s face went hard. “You’re a bit late for that,” he said harshly. “Two years late, if I remember correctly. I already told everyone what went down on Titan this morning. If you’d gotten yourself out of bed soon enough, you would’ve heard about it.”

He grabbed the joystick so hard it creaked, and turned to leave. “Don’t waste my time,” he snarled.

Clint took a deep breath and moved in front of Stark’s wheelchair. The man glared up at him, teeth half bared, and said, “Get out of my way, _Barton._ ”

Clint slowly shook his head. He bent down and placed the coffee cup on the ground.

**NO!**

_Yes,_ he thought firmly, in the tone of a parent arguing with an obstinate child. _This has to be me. Not you._ His fingers left the metal. The walls were just walls, his hands just hands. Stark was just Stark, angry and greying and bruised and _dead_ behind his eyes.

“You got that look, you know,” he said softly, waving his hand in front of his face. Stark froze. “Where you’ve seen your whole world crumble to dust before your eyes.”

Stark said nothing.

“I -” Clint swallowed. “I’m here because my wife and kids are dead,” he blurted out. Stark jerked away. “I fell asleep on fucking family movie night. We were watching Inside Out. They were there when I closed my eyes, and they were little piles of ash on the sofas when I opened them.”

He swallowed. “Stark, I - look, you know what?” he said sharply, seeing how the other man just continued to stare at him, his mouth drawn. “I get it if you don’t want to talk. I’m just saying. I - we have something in common. One thing. Can we let whatever _this_ is go, just for once?”

Stark blinked. Slowly, he let his head drop. He looked defeated. He looked dead on his feet. Wheels. “Okay,” the man said softly.

Clint felt his stomach jolt. Tony Stark never.... He never bent, never blew over. Hearing his voice falter like that was as bad as seeing him collapse to his knees and sob. “Man, you look like hell,” he said. “I - is there - what _happened?_ ”

“I lost,” said Stark. “I - I got stabbed by the purple nutsack himself. And when he snapped his fingers, I lost him.”

“Who?” Clint prompted softly, when Stark fell silent again.

He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a plunge into icy water. “Peter Parker. Just a teenager from Queens. You - you guys fought him in Berlin. He was Spider-Man.”

“He was, huh,” Clint said grimly. He’d suspected as much, during that fight that felt like an eternity ago. Sounded like fucking Alvin the Chipmunk. “Right, should’ve known.”

Stark gave him a sharp look, but there was no real heat behind it. “He went with me to Titan,” he continued. “We - me, him, Stephen Strange, and Rocket’s buddies the Guardians - we went there, and - and we lost.” He gripped the arms of his wheelchair, and his knuckles bled white. “Thanos won. Snapped his fingers, et cetera. And, uh. Peter died.”

He fell silent. “He was a son to you,” Clint guessed softly. The other man flinched, hunched further into himself. At this angle, Clint could clearly see his greying roots. “How did that happen?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Stark said, propping his head on his hand. Something fond flickered across his face, but it quickly vanished - stifled. “Before Berlin, he was swingin’ around Queens in his goddamn pajamas, fighting crime. I gave him a real suit. He got in way over his head, and I bailed him out, and… well, we kinda got closer from there, after...”

His voice tapered off in a hiss - almost the beginning of a word, but he stopped before anything came out.

“Sounds like you got a pretty good idea of how it happened,” Clint said, smirking.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“How old was he?” Clint instantly regretted asking, when he saw the pain flash across Stark’s face. “No, never mind, you don’t have to -”

“Seventeen,” the man said, almost to himself. “He’d just turned fifteen, before Berlin. It’s been two years. God.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said, and he hated how hollow and meaningless his words sounded.

Stark’s eyes flashed towards him, but not in a hateful way - sharp, calculating, yes, but… understanding. “I am too,” he said.

And somehow, Clint knew he meant it.

Stark reached forward and patted Clint on the elbow - the highest part of him he could reach in the chair. “So, good talk,” he said. He swallowed, and - as if it was physically painful - added, “Clint.”

Clint raised his eyebrows. There was so much packed into that name - and a look in the man’s eyes that took any sarcastic comments right from Clint’s throat and stomped on them. God, Stark was _tired._ Tired of fighting, tired of arguing - hell, if Clint stretched the similarity between them enough, then he could say that Stark was tired of _living._ Clint knew that he sure was.

“Yeah,” was all he said. “Tony.”

The man’s face softened, and he squeezed Clint’s elbow. “Man, I’m sorry,” he said. “For - everything, really.”

“It’s fine,” Clint said. “I’ll only hold it to you for the things you _really_ did.”

He meant it as a joke, but it made Tony’s faint smile falter. “More like what I didn’t do,” he muttered.

“Hey, no,” Clint said, putting a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Tony, you did a hell of a lot more than I ever did. Take a nap sometime, holy shit.”

“You first, old man,” Tony said, grinning.

“You’re older.”

They grinned at each other. Something had changed in the air between them. Clint looked at the man and felt a strange sense of kinship. Took six years, but they got there. It was morbid beyond all belief, bonding over their dead families - but it brought them together. He couldn’t find it in himself to hate Tony anymore. Just couldn’t. Not while he was broken, and greying, and sitting huddled in a wheelchair, when he’d just lost his kid. That’s what it boiled down to, and that’s what Clint felt, and - he _couldn’t._

“I’m sorry, too,” Clint added belatedly. “I said some shit.”

Tony’s eyes flashed, but not dangerously. “So did I,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking. “You know… this might be the drugs talking, Wakanda has some _amazing_ stuff squirreled away, but... I managed to see your side, by the end.”

Before Clint could respond, Tony patted his elbow one more time and moved his wheelchair backwards. “You had points,” he added. “We - we listened. We changed things in the Accords. Being with Peter really… changed a lot.”

He paused. “If the Accords are still standing after this, which I bet they won’t be,” he said awkwardly, “you can still come back. I’ll lobby to get you back home. You deserve it, at this point.”

Clint stood there, flabbergasted. “Guh,” he said intelligently.

Tony smirked. “And, you know, it’ll be great to call you Legolas again.”

“Oh, shut up,” Clint said.

Tony gave him a jaunty salute and steered his wheelchair down the hall.

Clint watched him go, something like a smile on his lips. The moment Tony disappeared around the corner, he took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. He ran his hand over his face, and the bandage caught on his stubble. That interaction had scared the pants off of him - after all, the last time he and Tony had been face to face, Clint was in a cell.

But they were both different then. Tony was different then. In this hallway, he wasn’t the cocky billionaire, or the smooth, unruffled asshole they’d fought against with the Accords. He was just a man, now; greying, tired and bruised. He’d had the arc reactor put in again, Clint realized. That was odd - especially after the stink Tony raised getting it out, after that incident with the Mandarin.

A puff of steam escaped the coffee cup, and Clint sighed heavily. “Now what,” he muttered, nudging the cup with his sock-covered toe.

The cup rattled, as if the stone was bouncing around inside. “Okay, calm your jets,” he said. He bent down and picked up the cup.

The Mind Stone slammed into his mind so hard that his body reacted, and he slumped against the wall again. It dove through him, plunged, tore into his mind. Clint’s chest heaved, and his fingers scrabbled for purchase on the sleek wall. “Fuck, fuck, too much,” he gasped. He slid down the wall to the floor, his hands shaking.

 **YOU DID NOT SEE**.

“I saw _plenty,_ what in the _ass_ are you talking about -!”

And the Stone showed him.

The world slowed, fading to a golden haze. Clint’s own body seemed to move in slow motion; his heartbeats slowed and rang in his head like gongs, ponderous and far apart.

**WORK WITH ME HERE.**

 

“We kinda got closer from there, after ssss….”

**HISSING S SOUND.**

**HE WAS GOING TO SAY SOMETHING STARTING WITH S.**

_Spider-Man?_

**HE SAID IT BEFORE WITHOUT ANY PROBLEMS.**

_...He was uncomfortable._

**...HE WAS.**

_Something he didn’t want to talk with me about. Something personal, or related to me, or both._

**FEW QUALIFIERS FOR THAT.**

_S, S, S…_

**STEVE ROGERS.**

_Fuck. That makes sense. Might’ve been Steve, then._

_After what happened, everyone on Tony’s side had a right to hate our guts._

**NO. COLONEL RHODES. ON TONY’S SIDE, BUT DID NOT SHOW HOSTILITY.**

hospital room, looking at steve, “Steve, don’t” - familiarity, kindness, weary indifference

not hatred

_Okay, then maybe not something related to the Accords._

**NOT DIVISION ON THOSE LINES.**

_Something starting with an S, awkward to talk about, involving Tony and possibly Steve Rogers - though Steve himself and the Accords were not the subjects._

**AFTER.**

_What?_

**AFTER IS AN INDICATOR OF TIME. POSSIBLE “S” MAY REFER TO AN EVENT.**

_An event?_

**AN EVENT.**

 

_Shit._

**WHAT?**

_Siberia._

Clint sat up straight. In the slow-motion world of the Stone, it felt like moving through Jell-O.

**WHAT WAS SIBERIA.**

_You’re the one in my brain, go through it and find out._

look, i’ll tell you… but you have to go alone, and as a friend

**SAM TOLD TONY TO GO TO SIBERIA.**

_Yeah - to kill the last of the Winter Soldiers..._

Something cold swept over Clint, then. He’d just remembered: a long-forgotten memory, from before he went back and turned himself in for house arrest - a little over two years ago. He stood in a darkened hallway outside Bucky’s cryo chamber, hiding in the shadows. Steve was talking to Nat around the corner, saying the same words over and over…

“He was my friend… Nat, he was my _friend…_ ”

And he never came back with his shield.

And Bucky’s arm had been blown off.

And seeing Steve’s face made Tony go white, sent the heart monitor into a frenzy, and now they couldn’t even look at each other...

“Shit,” Clint breathed. He let his head fall backwards, and it knocked against the metal wall. _“Shit._ ”

**SECONDED.**

Steve had never told him exactly what went down in Siberia; but he’d told Nat, and Nat had never told him, which meant it must have been bad and deeply, deeply personal. Clint stood up. He had to ask her about that. They couldn’t have something like that hidden away. Secrets had clearly fucked them all up in the past. Secrets fucked everyone up.

Clint took a step down the hall and immediately tripped over the hem of his too-large pants. He made an undignified noise of shock; the hand holding his cup flew out and struck the wall, hard enough to send the lid flying. Coffee sprayed everywhere and poured on the floor. He slipped on it, and the Mind Stone flew up and out…

There was a flash of blonde hair at the end of the hall.

Clint caught his balance and quickly captured the Mind Stone in the cup. Biting back curses, he sheared the spilled hot coffee off his bare chest, scrambled to grab the coffee mug’s lid, and slammed it on.

“Clint, what the _hell?_ ”

He froze and turned around. Natasha stood at the end of the hallway, staring right at him. He knew that she’d seen everything. _Everything._

 _Shit,_ he and the Mind Stone thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Clint. What a disaster. What an amazing human being. I'm of the humble opinion that Jeremy Renner was actually great casting - come on, when he broke his arms on the set of Tag, he ended up getting locked in a bathroom stall with his pants down and couldn't get out/pull his pants up because his arms were busted. That's such a Clint thing. Look it up, it happened. I do think, however, that MCU Clint gets so much flack because the writers slacked off. He's got such a rich past in the comics, and the Matt Fraction comics run really made him a real character. There was a lot wasted. It's a shame.
> 
> Anyway. Sorry if this chapter was garbage, or if things are going too fast. I just wanted to get back into Clint's headspace, and it was the perfect time to get the plot back in gear. 
> 
> Coming up: Phase One of the plan begins, Thor sulks, and Steve and Tony finally have a long-needed chat over popcorn. Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism appreciated. Thanks!


	11. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past years had changed him, made him hard and bitter against the universe - against his past. Even now, he could taste rock dust and crumbled mortar in the air, the ruins of Asgard’s mosaics crunching underfoot. That was Asgard’s legacy: death, destruction, subjugation. A golden empire built on foundations of blood and bone.
> 
> “In the mirror,” he said softly, “I look like my father.”

Natasha dragged him down the hall and into a storage closet. “Please tell me that I didn’t see what I think I just saw,” she breathed, once the door was closed. The meager light from the Mind Stone poured through the spout, casting their faces in muted golden light.

“What do you think you saw?”

She glared. “Right, yeah,” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “So. That thing that crashed into our plane on the way here?”

“Clint…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything!” he said hastily. “Really, I am! I was just, you know… a little occupied. I grabbed it without thinking - that’s why my hand is burnt - and I knew I’d have to keep it secure somewhere, so…”

He toasted her with the travel mug. “Coffee,” he said lamely. “Solves so many of my problems.”

Natasha stared at him and slowly shook her head. “Not all of them,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Do you know what this means?” she said. “Clint - the other stones could be out there.”

“ _What_ -”

“Thanos had all of them when he snapped his fingers,” she said. The Mind Stone cast a yellow pallor on her face, and made her eyes shine feverishly. “But the Mind Stone is here, not with him. What if… what if he lost the other ones?”

“Oh,” Clint breathed.

In the gloom of the closet, they stared at each other. Nat’s eyes were wide, afraid. He hadn’t seen her like this in years.

“Do we have to tell the others?” Clint whispered. “I mean - if there’s any way to fix what Thanos did, it’d be with the stones. We could hunt them down.”

Nat pursed her lips and shook her head. She was thinking; Clint could see the gears turning. “Remember the last time we were with the stone?”

“When - oh.”

Right. When Vision was born. They’d almost kicked the shit out of each other then, trying to stop Vision from being born. It was likely that the Stone had messed with them back then. _That was a dick move,_ he thought at the Stone. _Don’t do that shit again._ The Stone gave off the impression of a disgruntled sigh, and drew away. Clint scowled down at the coffee cup.

That reminded him. “What if we put it back in Vision’s head?” Clint suggested. “That could -”

 **NO**.

He cringed and staggered backwards, away from Nat. The coffee cup grew uncomfortably warm beneath his fingers. “Okay,” he huffed. “The Stone… not a fan.”

“It talks to you?” Natasha said. “It - do you know what else it can do?”

“...No.”

“ _Clint.”_

“Sorry! I don’t know what the extent of its powers are,” Clint said, “but it’s not that bad, actually. It’s sentient. It’s definitely sentient - no, no,” he said, thinking, “it’s _sapient._ There’s a difference - it has no senses, but it can think, it has wisdom, reasoning and judgment... It can speak to me. It - it’s in my brain -”

As Clint’s words wound on, Natasha looked more and more uneasy. She said sharply, “Do you need a whack on the head?”

Memories of a SHIELD holding cell flickered through him. Of Natasha sitting on the bed next to him; of a blue haze slowly bleeding away from his mind and body. “No,” he said. He shook his head. “No. This was voluntary.”

“Why would you -”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice!” he insisted. “I - it hasn’t done anything bad to me yet, you know -”

Someone banged on the door outside.

The two froze. “Who is it?” Nat called out sweetly.

“It’s Wong,” said a terse, grumpy voice.

 _Oh_ , _fuck_ , said Clint and the Mind Stone at the same time. _Watch your profanity_ , he added.

 **FUCK YOU,** said the Mind Stone. Great, it had a learning curve. It was like a toddler learning words; swear once around it, and it’d remember it forever. Gah.

“I tracked an Infinity Stone here,” Wong said. “You have one. Get out here and explain, before I break the door down.”

Nat said, “How did -”

“Magic.”

“Right.”

 **OBVIOUSLY**.

Wong yanked open the door; the light from the hallway poured in, and Clint winced slightly. “Explain yourselves,” he said sharply. The hand not on the door lingered protectively near Wong’s pocket; with the Stone in hand, Clint could hear the bright crackle of magic around it, and heard a deeper, darkly sinuous hum beneath it...

“What’s in that?” Wong said, gesturing at the travel mug.

Clint held the mug close to his chest. “Don’t take my coffee,” he pleaded. “Just -”

“Why do you have an Infinity Stone?” Wong snapped. “ _How?”_

“Why do you - look,” Clint said, exasperated. He gestured vaguely with the cup, and the Mind Stone clinked inside. Wong’s eyes flickered to it. “Fine. It smashed through the jet on the way here and I grabbed it, and stuck it in here. Is that a problem?”

“Problem?” Up close, Wong’s eyes were wild with panic. “ _Problem_? The problem is,” he hissed, leaning in, “Thanos might still be out there! Unless his magic finger snap incinerated himself, too -”

 **THAT WOULD BE FUCKING** **_HILARIOUS_** **. UNLIKELY, BUT HILARIOUS.**

“ - And what do you think he’ll do when he notices the stones are gone, huh? He’ll come right back here!”

“So what are we supposed to do, yeet it into the sun?” Clint sputtered. The Mind Stone flared angrily, and golden light shone from the cup’s spout. “Okay, not a fan, not a fan! It won’t let us.”

Wong just looked at him.

“...Do you know what ‘yeet’ means?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m giving you this look,” Wong said, waving at his unimpressed face.

“I have a thirteen-year-old son, it rubs off on you.”

Natasha shifted slightly, and Clint realized what he said. _I have a thirteen-year-old son_. The pain that rippled through his gut nearly made him fall over. “It rubs off,” he repeated, clenching his jaw. “Listen - this thing is sentient. It’s helped me out so far. I - I just -”

As his mind faltered, the Mind Stone whirred into action.

 **ALLIES WITH LEADERSHIP CAPABILITIES HAVE EXPRESSED HIGH LEVELS OF ANXIETY AND PANIC,** it whispered **, AND SHOW VISIBLE PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL STRAIN.**

Great, it was pulling out the big words. Time for the dictionary. “Steve and Tony have been chewed up,” Clint said, translating. “Steve just lost his best friend for, like, the fourth time or something, and this time probably for good - and Tony got his ass kicked by Thanos himself. They’re not so stable right now.”

**ALLIES WITH ROYAL AFFILIATIONS ARE SIMILARLY UNSTABLE, OR ARE ACTIVELY ENGAGED IN ROYAL DUTIES.**

“Shuri’s got to run a country on top of wrangling us morons, and Thor - well, I don’t know about him, he might -”

“He’s got an unhealthy fixation on the Ring,” Nat interjected. “It’s an Asgardian construct, and he’s convinced it’s his birthright, or something. Might be the Ring’s legendary temptation.” Wong grunted, possibly in agreement.

“Yeah. Okay. So Thor’s a little unstable because of the Ring,” Clint said. “Until he gets his head out of his ass about it, which I bet he won’t, he won’t be in any shape to run this circus.”

“So, what are you saying,” Wong said skeptically. “You think _you_ should be in charge.”

“...I mean, yeah,” Clint said awkwardly.

Silence. He gripped the coffee cup just a little bit tighter and took a drink. The Mind Stone thunked against the underside of the lid. Wong gave him a wide-eyed, incredulous stare. “Are you serious?” he said flatly.

“Dead serious,” Clint said. “I’m not a _complete_ moron. This stone is helping me a lot. I… I was a high school dropout. Now it’s got me doing interior calculus in my head.”

 **INTEGRAL**.

“Integral, whatever,” he corrected himself. “It’s got my brain going a mile a minute, and… and I _like_ it.”

Saying it really solidified it in his mind - Clint _liked_ being smart. He liked having what he’d never had in the past, what he’d been once ridiculed for lacking. It filled a void in him. Sure, it was weird and beyond terrifying having a voice in his head telling him what to do, but… This voice opened doors. It opened windows, it opened skylights, it opened fucking _portals_. The thought of power itched along his spine, and took hold in his mind. He held it in his hands and in his head. He could do _anything._

“Do you expect to lead us all on your own?” Wong said skeptically.

“I won’t be doing it alone, of course, that’s stupid,” Clint allowed. “I just… it’d be temporary. Until our resident geniuses get back on their feet, or until Thor gets his act together.”

“I’ll help,” Natasha said. Clint slung an arm around her shoulders and grinned at Wong. “You can, too, if you’re so inclined.”

Wong did not look impressed. His face was practically made for looking unimpressed. “And how do you plan on keeping it a secret? _Do_ you plan on keeping it a secret?”

“Yes,” Clint snapped.

“I really don’t -”

“Good,” Natasha said.

Clint and Wong stared at her.

She explained. “Queen Shuri told the entire world about the stones at the UN conference, so now everybody’s going to be watching us. And Wakanda’s government is going to be shaky, with Shuri as Queen. She’s smart as hell, but she’s a teenager - not too experienced. Her claim might be challenged soon, and I don’t think everybody’s going to be on our side.”

“So they can’t know,” Clint concluded.

Natasha nodded jerkily. “Exactly,” she said. “This, this stays between us.”

Wong took a deep breath. “I guess that’s fine,” he said sourly.

“Of course it’s fine,” Natasha said. “You and your sorcerers had the Time Stone for centuries and never told anyone -”

“You _what_?”

Both Natasha and Wong ignored Clint’s outburst. “- So this is just the same thing.”

“Right.” Wong sighed and crossed his arms, looking between the two of them. “This changes the entire game - you do realize that, right?” he said sternly. “Infinity Stones don’t just… up and disappear. It came back to Earth for a reason.”

“Which is -?”

“I don’t _know,_ ” Wong snapped, “you’re the one with the smart-guy stone, aren’t you?” Clint flinched from the heat in Wong’s voice; the man almost looked apologetic, but the moment quickly vanished. “We can’t be the only one who’s noticed that the stone is here,” he hissed. “There might be more on Earth. See if you can figure out what it did - why it crashed into the plane. Maybe ask it, if it’s sentient.”

Clint had already tried that; it hadn’t gone so well. The Mind Stone had a mind of its own - pun completely intended - and wouldn’t tell him anything. Asshole. “Yeah, sure,” he said anyway. “We’ll figure something out.”

Wong nodded jerkily. “Do what you can,” he said lowly, moving backwards down the hall. He unclipped a ring from his belt - a ring like the one Tony had been wearing, Clint suddenly realized. Alarm bells went off. God, he really should have gotten up in time for the briefing. “I’m going to talk to Stark,” he said. “Then I’ll be back at the Sanctum, tracking the atmosphere for signs of other Infinity Stones showing up. Do _not_ use the Stone.”

Clint blinked. “What?”

“Use anything other than the Stone’s latent intelligence-increasing properties, and I’m telling everyone you have it,” Wong said firmly.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Wong, Clint was mind-controlled by the thing. He’s not going to go around turning people into his own personal army like Loki did.”

Clint nodded furiously. “Yeah, I’m capable of empathy, for fuck’s sake.”

Wong shrugged, a what-can-you-do expression on his face. “You can never be sure,” he said offhandedly. Clint gritted his teeth. “I’ll be watching you, you know. But we don’t know who else will be watching, too.”

“Well, Shuri probably was, Wakandan security is the stuff of legends,” Clint said snidely.

Wong waved at the ceiling. “So is magic,” he said. Clint rolled his eyes. “It’s taken care of. Don’t be stupid.” Natasha huffed softly, and Clint elbowed her.

Wong raised his hands and drew a sizzling orange circle into the air; Clint stared, intrigued, while the Mind Stone gave the equivalent of an unimpressed huff. The circle widened to show an empty guest room much like Clint’s own, the bed still made - slightly rumpled - and an empty glass on the nightstand. There were wheel tracks on the rug next to the bed. Muffled cursing came from somewhere beyond the portal’s field of view. “Goodbye, for now,” the sorcerer said. “Don’t break anything.”

“Thanks, Wong,” Natasha said. He gave her a dismissive half-wave and closed the portal.

As it fizzled shut, Clint took a sip from the cup. The Mind Stone brushed his lip, and he bit back a curse as it burned. Some kind of clarity returned to his mind, with the pain. “Well.”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t use the Stone. I promise.”

“I know.”

They strolled down the hall, walking through the spot where Wong’s portal had been. The air still felt charged with energy, slipping over Clint’s skin and making the hairs on his arms stand up. “What did I miss while I was out, this morning?” he said.

“Not much - Stark and Nebula told us what happened on Titan, and we all compared notes. We’ll... talk and walk back to your room,” Natasha said, steering him around a corner. “You need to put on a shirt.”

“With this body?”

“Clint, you’re in a palace, at least have some respect -”

“I was kidding, sheesh.”

* * *

“Couldn’t bother knocking?”

Stark’s voice echoed from the suite kitchen, as the portal closed. Wong turned to see Stark wrestling with the Wakandan coffee machine, ferociously jabbing buttons until a stream of dark liquid began to pour into his cup. His eyes met Wong’s over the countertop. “This is ridiculous,” he added, gesturing vaguely in front of him. “The countertop. It’s too high and too far away, I feel like a toddler in this damn chair.”

He looked like one, too. At this angle, looking directly over the countertop at Tony, all Wong could see was his face from the chin up. He very carefully did not say anything.

“And the coffee machine - holy _hell_.”

“Yes, coffee machines with more than three buttons are the spawn of Satan,” Wong said, nodding wisely. “Mind making me a cup?”

“What, you can’t conjure one?”

Wong was so used to hearing that question that it merely made him grimace. “Actually -”

“No, let me guess, artificially-created shit is fake down to the molecular level and might spontaneously combust or some… fuckery.” Stark raised his eyebrows and spread his hands, coffee slopping over the brim of his mug. “Huh? How close was I?”

Wong opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it. “Well - that’s not a bad guess,” he said at last. Stark pumped his fist and tried to stand up to grab another mug; Wong waved his hand, and a mug suddenly appeared in Stark’s grasp. The man stared at it, then at him.

“No cream, two sugars, please,” Wong said blandly. “If food or drink are conjured point-blank, they might revert to their original energy state, which is a problem if you’ve digested them. Think serious chemical burns to your small intestine. It’d be better to summon it from another place, which is more difficult, but less… deadly.”

Stark made a truly grotesque face and backed up his wheelchair, steering the joystick with his elbow since his hands were full. “One of Gamp’s laws of Transfiguration, nice,” he muttered. “Rowling got something right.”

“You are a nerd.”

“And _you_ are... wearing a bathrobe, I'm having trouble taking you seriously. So, Glinda,” he said, sipping from his coffee. Wong sighed. “What’s up, what’s shakin’? You need me for something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Wong said. He took the proffered cup of coffee and gestured towards the desk on the other side of the room. “You said during debrief that you used Strange’s sling ring to get off of Titan.”

“I did, yeah,” Stark said. He steered the chair towards the desk; Wong sat down in the desk chair, and they both sipped their coffee. “Thought that was okay.”

“It is, it’s… more than okay.” Wong put his cup down on the desk and said, “You know, Stephen… it took him weeks to make his first portal. He only managed it when the Ancient One shoved him onto the peak of Mt. Everest and he had to travel back to save his life.”

Tony spat his sip of coffee back into his mug. “Shit,” he gasped, giggling slightly. “Goddamn, that’s _hilarious_. How come he took that long?”

“Ego,” said Wong. Something flickered across Stark’s face, but he quickly hid it with the coffee cup. “He was so used to success that when he was faced with what seemed impossible, his mind refused to accept it. Took him weeks upon weeks to manage it.”

“And I did it in a day and a half,” Stark said quietly. There was no trace of pride in his voice; just a bland acceptance. Acknowledgement of a trial. He managed to make that day and a half sound like absolute hell. Wong had heard many things about the man, but he had not anticipated him to be this way.

“You did.”

“And?”

“You have potential,” Wong said. “Forgive me if this sounds like a college recruitment ad, but we - _I_ think you’d fit in at the Sanctum.”

Stark frowned and tilted his head. “If I remember correctly,” he said, “I don’t think there’s much competition anymore.”

Okay, that hurt. “Even if there was, you would come out near the top,” Wong said sharply. “Stark - you can turn me down if you want. But there’s no doubt that you have skills in the mystic arts -”

“I’m not turning you down.”

Wong blinked.

“I’m just…” Stark waved his hand vaguely. Stephen’s sling ring glimmered on his hand. “That mess on Titan?” he said. “Just a last grab at hope. Nebula and I had no idea it would even work. Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that. Now that my feet are on Earth’s soil again, I don’t know if I’ll have time for Hogwarts.”

“Kamar-Taj.”

“Yeah.”

“Let me guess,” Wong added, thinking of Stephen. A man of science, logic and analysis. That had been his stumbling block: he had tried to analyze magic, to control it, and that kept him from truly reaching his full potential. At first. “If you had a chance, you would get a wizard in a lab. Have them cast spells under sensors, stretch the limits of their portaling abilities, test for dark matter in their sigils.”

Stark grimaced. “Fun fact, you can’t actually test for dark matter yet, only for where it _might_ be -”

“That could change, with the mystic arts,” Wong said.

“Using magic to run tests is like running experiments with salvaged alien tech!” Stark sputtered. “How can you use it to understand the world, if you don’t understand _it_? You don’t! It’s dangerous!”

“No more dangerous than brain surgery,” Wong said. “We don’t know everything about the human brain, either.”

“But you don’t carve up a brain with pieces of itself,” Tony said.

“But there’s still a brain at the helm of it all.”

“A brain - you know what, fuck the metaphor, it’s falling apart,” Tony said, flicking his hand dismissively. “Fine. I give up. Color me intrigued, I’ll be a wizard if you want. Just don’t teach me.” Wong’s eyebrows flew up. “Give me the books and I’ll learn myself. My rules, my game.”

Good Lord. Wong surreptitiously checked to see if he was stuck in a time loop. He’d had a conversation just like this with Stephen, once, back before he’d become Sorcerer Supreme. “You two,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Stark, you’re not ready to run through my library without restrictions. One portal does not a sorcerer make.”

“I’m sorry - you _two_?” Stark said, raising an eyebrow. God, he even had the same skeptical mannerisms as Stephen, and a similar godforsaken goatee. This was horrifying. It was a wonder that their commandeered alien ship hadn’t imploded from the gravitational force of their combined egos. “Who - oh, you’re referring to Stephen.”

“Yeah.” Wong chose his next words carefully. “The moment he learned to astral project,” he said, “he set his soul to studying while his body slept. Having a photographic memory helped, but -”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold up, slow down. _Astral projection?_ ” Stark echoed. “You mean - releasing the soul from the body, letting it do its own thing?”

His face was pale. Wong saw this and leaned back in his chair, studying Stark. He had meant for those words to appeal to Stark’s curiosity - to his Ravenclaw side, to put it bluntly - to pique his interest, make him see the base practicality of magic and seek to use it. He did not see curiosity in Stark’s face. He saw _dread._

“What happened, Stark,” he said sternly. His hand crept to the sling ring on his belt.

“I,” Stark said, and paused. “Never mind. It isn’t something I - ugh.” He exhaled sharply and slumped back in his chair, dragging his hands down his face.

Wong noticed the slight tremor in his hands and leaned closer. “Are you alright?” he said quietly. The man looked like something was wearing on him. Something was drawing his energy.

“Yeah,” Stark said into his hands. “Just peachy.”

“I respectfully disagree,” Wong said dryly. “You look like a Great Depression photograph, all… gray and dusty.” Perhaps “dusty” was the wrong word to use, because Stark flinched slightly, but he pushed the moment aside for the time being and slipped on his sling ring. A faint thread of unease went through him. “Seriously. You look like hell. If you’re up for it, I can try to accelerate your healing, and get you back on your feet.”

“No, no - I’m fine,” Stark insisted. _No, you’re not,_ thought Wong, looking closer.

In his pocket, warded with the strength of a thousand sanctums, the Ring stirred. Wong sent a mental punch of magic the Ring’s way, and it settled down again.

“Good God. Stop with the mother-henning, Jesus.”

“Stark.”

The man peeked through his fingers at him.

“What. Happened,” Wong said sternly. Stark stared back at him. Hiding the sling ring with his other hand, Wong twitched his fingers slightly to cast a spell. Stark looked almost like Clint Barton had - the same manic weariness in the eyes, tension in the shoulders, shaking hands. If Stark had another Infinity Stone… then Wong might have to spill both their secrets.

Maybe. Maybe not.

As Stark regarded him carefully, and the spell spun itself into existence, Wong rethought that idea. If Wong was the one to tell the others that the stones were back, they’d all doubt Clint for not telling them himself. There might be infighting. Whatever tenuous bond they all had over the Ring would shatter. Their Civil War had been fought over much less. Clint would have to tell them on his own - hopefully sooner, rather than later.

The spell finished and locked in. Wong slowly nosed along the edge of Tony’s soul, and found… nothing. Just some residual energy, similar to what he’d detected on Steve and Thor as well - from being in such close proximity to an Infinity Stone, in Stark’s case the Time Stone, even for such a brief time.

So the man was just tired. As always.

Then Stark spoke.

“There was a dream,” he said softly. “I - I dreamt, of something.”

Wong leaned forward. “What?” he prompted.

Stark took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at a point somewhere above Wong’s head. “I was standing,” he said slowly, “in a hallway lined with every suit I ever built. And as I walked. Uh.”

He grimaced, and ran a hand over his face. “As I walked, I heard Stephen talking to me,” he whispered. Wong’s breath caught in his throat. “Weird, yeah, I know. He was… passing on messages. From the ones who died.”

Wong quickly conjured a pen and a piece of paper, writing down what Stark said. The man watched him with amusement. “Great, now I _really_ feel like I’m in therapy.”

“How does that make you _feel_?” Wong said stoically.

Stark snorted with laughter. “Shut up. Anyway - Stephen. He said that they were all safe. They were fine.”

“Did you see him, in your dream?” Wong prompted.

“Uh. Yeah, I did,” Stark admitted. “He was hovering at the end of the hallway, wearing that stupid cape -” Wong itched to correct him, but didn’t want to interrupt. “- and I was… I was walking towards him, but no matter how close I got, how fast I walked… I never got there.” Wong wrote that down.

Stark clutched his coffee mug tighter. The unadorned ceramic creaked. Wong surreptitiously strengthened the mug with a spell; Stark clearly felt the tingle of magic and gave him a vaguely exasperated glance. “And they were there,” he said softly.

“Who?”

“Everyone - everyone I know who died, and a few that I didn't. Standing where my suits stood, in the same poses - but completely motionless, not a breath out of any of ‘em. I - I couldn’t see beyond Stephen and the cape, but there might have been more. I don’t know.”

“Did he say anything?” Wong said. “Other than the messages.”

Stark was silent for a few moments, staring resolutely at the floor. “He said,” he whispered, “that we were on the right path. He didn’t know what would happen next, but we were on the right path.”

Wong nodded pensively. Inside, his heart slammed against his ribs. This could change everything. When he looked into the futures, did Stephen know that the Ring would be summoned? The Ancient One hadn’t had time to educate him about the artifact, but Wong had prepared some basic notes for him: powerful artifact, Asgardian relic, don’t let them have it even if Odin was standing on our front doorstep, et cetera. How much did Stephen know?

But he didn’t know what would happen next. He was dead. Perhaps the Time Stone did not know if he would live or die, and thus did not show him what would happen after Thanos’s snap. But Stephen had clearly seen victory, and hoped that they would be sent along the right path.

How much did he know?

Wong scribbled down a few more notes and focused on Stark again. The man was still staring into space. “Anything else that you noticed in the dream?” he said.

Stark was silent for a few long, tense moments. “No,” he said quietly. “Not - not much. I wouldn’t take this too seriously, if I were you,” he added. “I’ve been doped up on all kinds of alien and human drugs for the past few days. Probably a fever dream, nothing more.”

Wong shook his head. The dream sounded too specific to be a hallucination, and he said so. “It could be a mix of the two,” he allowed. “I’ll read into it. Dreams often have more truth in them than waking life.”

Stark nodded wisely. “That quote is pithier than an orange,” he drawled. “Better write that down.”

“Stop that.”

It was the truth, though. In Wong’s line of work, all sorts of things were possible. Messages from beyond the grave, while rarely true, still had merit. If Wong wasn’t sure that Stephen was dead, he would put the dream down to a variant of astral projection, but… who knew? It might explain a bit why Stark looked like hell; if Stephen was astral-projecting into his soulscape, a difficult but possible task, he would have to draw on Tony’s soul energy as an anchor. That would wear down a man.

But Stephen was dead. To the best of Wong’s knowledge, he was dead.

“Well,” Wong said, standing up. He drained the last of his coffee and banished the mug back to the cupboard. “If you ever want to chat, you know where to find me.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

Wong opened a portal behind him, so they both could see it. The main hub of Kamar-Taj loomed beyond: the three doors to the other Sanctums, the pedestal for the Eye of Agamotto. The sigils and mandalas of the Sanctum Santorum’s wards burned bright. Wong could not leave the Sanctum unprotected while he was in Wakanda. He hadn’t had a peep out of any of the Sanctums since the Dusting, so he had to do it all himself.

“You do now,” he said to Stark. “And even if you don’t, you can always travel to the New York Sanctum. Just picture the stairs, or the Cauldron of the Cosmos that you were leaning on.”

“Don’t keep giving me shit about that, I already apologized.”

“I know.”

“And -” Stark sighed, and fiddled with the sling ring on his hand. There was another ring just below it: a simple gold band, with some kind of pattern etched into it. His engagement ring, probably. “C’mon, Wong, both those locations are thousands of miles away,” he said sourly. “I could barely manage a hundred-mile portal.”

“That’s still better than nothing,” Wong pointed out. “Just keep practicing. Remember, even Stephen was absolute shit when he started.” Stark’s lips twitched. “And besides, last I checked your suit could break Mach 1. If you’re not up for portals, just jet over here the old-fashioned way.”

Stark shrugged. “If that wouldn’t fuck with my stitches, maybe I would,” he said.

“You could learn to heal those.”

“Tempting, tempting. Maybe. Not now -”

There was a sudden bellow from the room next door, rendered wordless by the thick walls. Stark flinched and slopped coffee all over himself. “What the _hell_?” he hissed.

Wong deftly closed his portal, staring at the wall. “Who’s next door to you, Stark?” he said.

“Uh.” Stark frowned and thought. Then his eyes widened. “Bruce,” he said.

* * *

_Earlier:_

Bruce’s room was… _better,_  somehow.

It felt lived-in, worn and used in a comforting way, though Bruce had only had it for a couple of days. Doors, cupboards and drawers were flung open, the rug was askew, and every time Thor popped his head in the bed was a blast zone of messy pillows and blankets. A disaster. It was glorious.

It was better than Thor’s room, at any rate. The only sign that anyone lived in it was Stormbreaker, propped against the bedside table. Everything else was gathering dust. Even the bed was crisply made. So Thor found himself slipping into Bruce’s room, merely because it didn’t feel like a mausoleum. Though he felt that his mood was ruining the calm vibe of the suite; he had been more than off since the meeting that morning, and his skin crackled with tension.

From his seat in the nest of pillows and blankets, Bruce didn’t seem to notice; he was using the tablet to scan news headlines, but every now and then he switched to a different window and typed a few words in it. He’d read over the text already written, make a face, delete it all and start over, with a wrinkle between his brows that never seemed to vanish. Thor flung himself into the desk chair, which creaked ominously, and watched Bruce slingshot between the windows. His feet were tucked under the thick blanket rumpled at the end of the bed.

Thor realized that Bruce had more pillows on his bed. Five, to be precise. Thor only had one. This was unfair.

“You okay?”

Thor glanced up. Bruce was watching him, frowning slightly. “You just look,” he started, and waved vaguely at his face. “Tense.”

Thor swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess.” He rose from the chair and gazed out the window.

“Talk to me,” Bruce demanded softly.

His eyes burned into Thor’s back, and Thor took a deep breath. He stared out the window; his eye stuck yet again, and he smacked the side of his head a couple of times, knocking it loose. He needed to get that fixed. But he couldn’t replace it with the patch. He couldn’t.

“Thor.”

“Right, yeah,” Thor huffed, scratching the back of his neck. He turned to Bruce, who had turned off the tablet and set it on the bedside table. He sat cross-legged on the pale yellow sheets, facing Thor with his hands folded under his chin. Patient, listening. He was good at that, being patient - it took patience to control the Hulk, Thor knew. But this patience wasn’t the alert, guarded wariness of holding back the Hulk; it felt resigned. Nothing else to do but wait.

“What is it?” Bruce said.

Thor swallowed. “It’s the Ring,” he said quietly.

With one foot, he hooked the leg of the desk chair and dragged it towards the bed. “Wong had it with him, I could _feel_ it,” he said, sitting down. Bruce nodded. “It was calling to me… I could hear it whispering to me, for the entire meeting.”

“It does that,” Bruce said pensively. Thor stared at him. He hastily corrected, “In the books. The Ring, it, uh - it tempts people into putting it on and using it; it’s supposed to be some giant metaphor for how power corrupts -”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like a metaphor anymore,” Thor said sourly. “I’m living it.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Bruce scooted a little closer to the edge of the bed. Thor saw him squinting slightly, and wondered where his glasses had gone - perhaps he’d never gotten a new pair in the first place. Maybe he would talk to Stark or the Queen about getting him some spares. “So it’s… tempting you,” Bruce said.

“Yeah. And it’s wrong.”

Bruce blinked. “Well, that’s a good sign,” he said. “That means you’re not going to rip it out of Wong’s hands and go dominate the galaxy, good job.”

The words were meant to be a joke, but they made something bitter and grim stir in Thor’s chest. Dominate the galaxy. Wasn’t that what his ancestors did? Wasn’t that the Asgardian way? He was Asgardian, and the Ring was Asgardian. He had a legacy, a _legacy,_ Asgard had a _legacy_  

“Thor.”

Bruce’s hand reached out to touch Thor’s shoulder, and he jerked away from it, shivering. His skin was cold all over. “What?” he croaked. A few sparks shot from his fingertips, and he flinched, staring at his hand.

“You were spacing out,” Bruce said softly, folding his hands in his lap. His eyes were soft and concerned. A strange rush of gratitude filled Thor’s chest and, slowly, ebbed. “Thor - you’re doing fine.”

Thor shook his head. “I don’t know that,” he said. “ _You_ can’t know that.”

“I can -”

“You _can’t,_ ” Thor snapped, standing up. The desk chair rocketed backwards, and Bruce raised his eyebrows. He only leaned back slightly to look up at him, and Thor wished briefly that there had been a bigger reaction, because standing in the face of Bruce’s calm was… was _infuriating._

“Everything about this is _shit,_ ” Thor snarled, jabbing a finger at the door. “This whole plan, this whole story, _everything._ I _know_ what the Ring can do, I know what we _have_ to do. It - it’s stupid, waiting around for this, telling stories and watching… watching _movies_ when _I already know what we have to do!_ ” His voice rose to a near bellow by the end, but he didn’t care.

“Okay,” said Bruce.

“That Ring - it was supposed to return to my people _centuries_ ago! My father had been looking for it since I was a child. It - these people had no _right_ to keep it for so long,” Thor fumed. “It’s the only piece of Asgard I have left, and I can’t stand to see it in the hands of - of -”

“Thor, can I ask you something?”

Thor clenched his jaw, and lighting rippled across his chest. “Fine,” he ground out.

Bruce lifted his chin slightly, and asked a question that Thor had been asking himself, over and over, since he had seen the Ring gleaming in Wong’s hand.

“Is that the Ring talking, or you?”

_Is that the Ring?_

He sat back down in the desk chair. “I,” he started, then trailed off. Thor wanted nothing more for those words to be the Ring’s fault. The past years had changed him, made him hard and bitter against the universe - against his past. Even now, he could taste rock dust and crumbled mortar in the air, the ruins of Asgard’s mosaics crunching underfoot. That was Asgard’s legacy: death, destruction, subjugation. A golden empire built on foundations of blood and bone.

“In the mirror,” he said softly, “I look like my father.”

Bruce frowned slightly, and leaned forward.

“The only thing stopping me from ripping this stupid cybernetic eye from my skull and using the patch is… is how like him I would seem.”

“You’re not your father, Thor,” Bruce said gently.

“And I don’t want to be him.” Thor gulped, and unconsciously scooted his chair forward, closer to Bruce. “I can’t follow in his footsteps,” he whispered. He looked at his own hands, grasping each other. His thumb had started rubbing circles into the other palm. “That’s not the king I want to be. That - I can’t rule that kind of Asgard. I can’t be king of _that_ …” _If I’m even king of anything anymore…_

“Thor. Look at me.”

Two hands rested on Thor’s shoulders, then dragged slowly in to rest at the base of his neck. Bruce’s fingertips skimmed his collarbone. Despite himself, Thor shivered, as the roughness of Bruce’s hands caught on his skin. “Look at me,” Bruce said again, just above a whisper.

He did. At this angle, he had to lift his head slightly to meet his eyes.

“You’re right,” Bruce said. “Asgard’s legacy is not that stupid ring. It’s its _people_.”

“But what if there aren’t any people left?” Thor choked out.

Bruce shook his head. “You can’t know that,” he said. The echo of Thor’s words made his chest ache. “On the ship… uh, there were escape pods. I saw them the first time, on our way to fight Hela. There’s a chance that some of them might have gotten out.”

 _There’s a chance._ “There is,” Thor whispered aloud. “There - but where would we look? How?”

Bruce laughed quietly. “I might have a few ideas,” he said. “I’d have to work out the kinks and ask Shuri, or maybe Tony, to give us the tech, but… you know, it could work.”

“You really think so?”

Bruce nodded sharply, and his eyes glittered with something beyond excitement. Determination, even - as if there was something to prove. Thor realized Bruce was close enough that he was no longer squinting. “It will,” he said firmly. “And I’ll help you.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

Bruce swallowed, and added softly, “And if we find… if we find what’s left of the _Statesman…_ ” Thor froze when he heard the name of their lost ship. Gently, Bruce’s hand rubbed circles into his tense shoulder. “We can bring the bodies here. I can ask Shuri or her… council? Is it a council?”

“I don’t know,” Thor breathed.

“Whatever -” Bruce waved his free hand, the one not currently pushing the tension from Thor’s shoulder. “I can ask them if you can bury your people here.”

“We don’t bury them,” Thor said. He cleared his throat, and looked at his hands once more. “There are… rites. We’d need a waterfall. And boats.” He remembered a flaming boat on the waters, embers rising through the stars. Would they find Loki? Could they give him the Asgardian burial he had earned, even in death?

“We have one,” Bruce said, grinning. “If the Wakandans don’t want us to use theirs, we can always check out Victoria Falls.”

“Yeah. Yes, that sounds…” Thor couldn’t find the words. He let out a helpless laugh, still looking at his hands, and shook his head.

Bruce gently squeezed Thor’s shoulder. “And -”

Before he could finish, someone rapped on the door and pushed it open. Thor flinched so hard that the desk chair rocketed backwards. Over Bruce’s suddenly tense shoulders, he could see Wong, hands glimmering with mandalas, standing defensively in front of Tony Stark’s wheelchair.

“Everything alright in there?” Stark said. “Heard shouting, was concerned - oh, hi, Thor.” Thor gave him a halfhearted wave.

“Hi, Tony,” Bruce said wearily. “You’re a bit late for the shouting; sorry to disappoint.” One of Tony’s eyebrows slowly crept up; Thor couldn’t see Bruce’s face, but judging from the way Tony’s face was twitching, the two were having a very meaningful conversation with nothing more than their eyebrows. A faint flush was creeping up the back of Bruce’s neck.

“So… no sign of the green guy?” Tony said slowly.

Bruce shook his head. “No, it’s all quiet up here,” he said, gesturing at his head. “A little too quiet, but I can’t complain.”

“Think he’ll ever come back?”

Bruce lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “No clue,” he said. “I… I wouldn’t mind if the Hulk stayed away, but it’ll take some getting used to.”

Somehow it was… odd, listening to Bruce speak of the Hulk so calmly. Thor picked at his fingernails, sparing him a few glances. Even on Sakaar, after the Hulk had gone back under, Bruce spoke of his alter ego as if he was afraid of him. Not the best relationship.

But something had changed between then and now - no, between then and that first day, in Thor’s room, going through Wikipedia and yelling at each other about their problems. He remembered the tension in Bruce’s body, building like a tidal wave in every muscle - but there was no flash of green in his eyes. The anger had vanished as if it had never been there, replaced with a stone-cold blankness that far surpassed any kind of control he’d seen from Bruce in the past.

For the first time, Thor got the sensation that something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Tony and Bruce were still talking. “You know, you did really well with the Hulkbuster,” Tony was pointing out. So _that’s_ what the suit was called. Thor barely refrained from rolling his eyes. That was irony at its finest. “If you ever want to use it again, let me know, I’ll get it fixed up for you.”

“Thanks, Tony, but I’m not really up for battle anytime soon,” Bruce said quietly.

“Neither am I, neither am I,” Tony said. “I get it. Forget I said anything.” He poked Wong in the side. “Okay, Sparrowhawk, false alarm,” he said, steering his wheelchair away from the door. “You’re free to go.”

“ _Sparrowhawk?_ ” Wong echoed. “How _old_ are you?”

“Younger than you, I bet.” Wong rolled his eyes, opened a portal, and strode through without a word. Grinning, Tony watched him go. “Good talk, Bruce,” he added, driving his wheelchair away. “See you on movie night!”

“Movie night - oh, right,” Bruce muttered, as Tony vanished. “Yeah, Clint’s master plan. Oy.” He collapsed against the headboard, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Gah.”

“Yeah,” Thor huffed, leaning back in the chair. “That was… surprising, that he came up with it.”

“Hey, don’t knock him for that, Clint’s a pretty smart guy,” Bruce said. He crossed his arms over his stomach and stared at the ceiling. “He just doesn’t show it much.”

“Right, right.”

Bruce rolled his head towards Thor and said quietly, “You’re sure you’re going to be fine with this?”

Thor nodded. “I’m sure. Even if it feels like a waste of time… at least I can focus on our thing, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, smiling faintly. “Yeah, that’ll be good.”

He picked up the tablet next to him and closed his open windows. Thor squinted at it; the holographic display was see-through, and at this angle everything was backwards. “What were you writing?” he said.

Bruce pursed his lips. “Uh - an email,” he said, deftly closing the email tab. “For Betty. I… changed my mind.”

“Oh. That’s - that’s good, I guess,” Thor said. For some strange reason, he felt relieved. “Want to, uh… figure out what we have to do?”

Bruce blinked down at the tablet for a bit. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Okay - uh, I already kind of have an idea or two…” He nudged the tablet away and slid down the headboard, until he was lying stretched-out on the bed. “There’s two or three ways we can go about this…” His face was oddly still as he talked, save for that faint wrinkle between his brows that never, never went away. The only things that seemed alive were his eyes, as soft and brown as they always were.

Thor suddenly realized that Bruce had stopped talking, and was waiting for a response. He hadn’t heard a single word of what he’d said - “Yeah, totally,” he said.

There was a beat of silence.

“Were you even listening?” Bruce said.

“No. I - I spaced out.”

“You were staring.”

Thor’s mouth fell open. “I was - I was _not_ ,” he sputtered.

“At _me._ ”

“ _I was not!”_

Bruce shook a finger at him and said, “You’re turning red, Thor, I know you were -”

“Seriously, _no-_!”

“Yes you were! What - is there something on my face, or -”

“No, no, you just look… too… comfy,” Thor said lamely. Bruce raised both eyebrows. “Yeah. It’s a crime, really. You have five damn pillows on your bed and I only have _one_ in my suite. Totally unfair -”

Bruce threw a pillow at him, and got him right in the face. “There. Happy now?” he said, smiling.

“Sure,” Thor allowed. “Anyway. Sorry about that, would you mind starting over?” And Bruce covered his face and laughed into his palm, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. Thor hugged the pillow to his chest and leaned back in the chair, listening to Bruce talk.

“I’m thinking we go about this a few different ways,” he said. “At first I thought about tracking for gamma radiation - like that time with the Tesseract, six years ago or so. ‘Cause he used the Power Stone on the ship, right?”

“Right,” Thor said. He gripped the pillow a little tighter.

“Sorry for bringing that up,” Bruce said, glancing at him. “I - I don’t remember it, but I know you went through it, and that must have been _horrible_ for you -”

“It was, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, keep going.”

“Okay.” Bruce clasped his hands together over his stomach and continued. “But the… it happened in such a small place, and we’d have to comb the entire galaxy for that one little spot. Too much time.”

“Wait - why would we have to find the _Statesman_?” Thor said. That would make sense if the ship’s computer was still intact - they could look at the pod records to see if they’d deployed, and possibly track them from there - but Thanos had blown the whole thing to pieces.

“The pods,” Bruce said. “We could scan for traces of exhaust and see if we can map out where they were going. Maybe I can talk to Kraglin or Nebula, they know more about spaceships than I do. They can give us a baseline for spaceship exhaust to work with, and I can send up a probe rigged with Rocket’s ansible tech, to scan for it and report back instantaneously.”

Thor stared at him. “I only understood about three quarters of that, but you make it sound smart, so,” he said. To be honest, he understood everything - except the ansible bit; the Allspeak didn’t translate that, so it must have been a colloquialism. He just wanted to see Bruce’s reaction.

All he got was a warm smile - which was, honestly, not that bad. “Don’t sell yourself short, Thor,” Bruce said. “You matched me toe-for-toe getting off Sakaar. You’ve got a lot going for you.”

Despite himself, Thor smiled. “Thanks,” he said softly.

“No problem,” Bruce said. “So - anyway, first we find the _Statesman._ Gamma tracking, like I did for the Tesseract, is out, because of how small the area was. But then,” he said, dramatically raising a finger, “I remembered you said the Guardians picked you up - they were following the distress signal and coming to help.”

Bruce swallowed and shifted down into the pillows, so far down that only the tip of his nose was visible. “I’m glad they found you,” he added softly, voice just above a whisper. “I - the whole time, before you, uh, Bifrost-ed in, I thought you were dead.” A spark shot out of Thor’s hand. “I missed you. I guess. Uh. No, I did.” He swallowed. “I definitely did.”

“Oh,” Thor said faintly. Another spark shot out and scorched the pillow. “I… missed you too. I didn’t know where Heimdall sent you - I guess I thought the worst, until I saw you.”

They were both quiet for a few tense moments. Thor shifted in his seat and clutched the pillow closer. There was a weird tingling in his fingers; if the conversation kept going like this, he was going to set the pillow on fire.

Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh. Anyway. I was thinking, we could go to Titan - remember, Tony and Nebula said that they left the _Benatar_ there, since the engines were shot? We can look at their GPS, see if there’s anything we can salvage.”

“We could bring the ship back,” Thor realized. Bruce lifted his head slightly to look at him. “Rocket would want that,” he said. “That ship was his home for a while. He’d appreciate it if we brought it - maybe he could fix it.”

“That’d be a lonely ship,” Bruce said. “Empty chairs, empty tables and all. Sure it’d be good for him  to see that?”

Thor shook his head and leaned forward. “If we have any say in it,” he said firmly, “those chairs won’t be empty for long.”

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t speak. His breath left him in a rush of air. All he did was nod slowly, and give him a small, hopeful smile. It warmed Thor’s heart in ways that he could not pretend to understand.

Thor added, “So, want to go to Titan?”

Bruce’s eyes widened comically. “ _What?”_ he sputtered, sitting up. “You want - _now?_ ”

“Why not?” Thor said blandly. “I have Stormbreaker. I can use the Bifrost. I know where Titan is, everyone does. It’s a disgusting hellhole, and nobody goes there unless they have a _really_ good reason or if it’s a body dump -”

“You’re really helping me get on board with this, Thor,” Bruce snapped.

“I thought you said you wanted to go!”

“Well, yeah, but - not _now,_ I haven’t thought out what to do -” Bruce ran a hand through his too-short hair and slumped back on the pillows; the mattress creaked. “I don’t know what’s in the atmosphere, I don’t know if -”

“Tony was able to breathe it for a couple of days,” Thor pointed out. “ _He’s_ not dead.”

“And he looks like the ass end of hell, not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Bruce said. He huffed and looked at the ceiling for a long while. Thor just watched him.

At last, Bruce turned his head and looked at Thor. “Allspeak works on text, right?” he said.

“Uh - yeah,” Thor said, briefly flabbergasted by the intensity of his friend’s gaze.

“Great. You’ll be my translator, I won’t be able to read their dashboard,” Bruce said firmly. He slid out of bed on the side closest to Thor’s. “Let me get my shoes,” he muttered. Thor grinned at him and bounded out of the desk chair, chucking the pillow onto Bruce’s bed on the way out.

Then he rethought that and came back, stealing the pillow and another one as Bruce’s back was turned. It was unfair. Really. Absolutely _criminal._

“I saw that!” Bruce called over his shoulder.

“I know!” he shouted back, shouldering open the door to his own room. Whistling cheerfully, he tossed the pillows onto his crisply-made bed, taking some satisfaction in how the sheets rumpled beneath them, and grabbed Stormbreaker. Lightning rippled across his arms and over Stormbreaker’s blade.

His eye stuck again.

Thor grimaced and popped it out with his thumb, wincing as that half of his vision went black again. The eye rolled into the palm of his hand and stared blandly up at him. Perhaps he’d take it to Rocket to get it fixed, if the rabbit ever showed his face again.

Perhaps not.

Thor set the eye on the bedside table and fished the metal eyepatch from his pocket, pressing it over his eye once more. Fuck legacy. Fuck his birthright. Bull _shit._

“Thor?”

“Coming,” he called. He lightly tossed Stormbreaker, caught it, and strode out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update; I took the first half of the week trying to untangle the plot threads for the _entire _planned series, so I can get this shit in gear. I'm about as good at juggling plot threads as I am at juggling greased refrigerators, so good luck to me. We'll get into Phase One of the plan next chapter, in which there will be several gratuitous references, bad jokes, and angst galore. Hope you enjoyed.__
> 
> Also: holy heck if you like Lord of the Rings AND Marvel, check out this heckin trailer someone made for LOTR that has the music from the Infinity War trailer in it: [The Lord Of The Rings Trailer (Avengers: Infinity War Style)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdpenmmeiUE). It's the best fucking thing I've seen in my entire LIFE. I almost cried. It's truly spectacular.
> 
> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are, as always, greatly appreciated. I had a tough time churning out this chapter, and sometimes I went back to read all your amazing comments, and that kept me inspired to get this chapter done. Thanks!


	12. The World is Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A voice whispered, in a language Steve had never heard. And a woman spoke over that otherworldly language, voice low and sibilant: 
> 
> “The world is changed.”

_ Friends, Wakandans, Countrymen,  _

_ This is Clint. If you couldn’t tell. It’s time to get this plan in gear. _

* * *

 

When the email got to her, Natasha was sitting in her room, trying to get a hold of Fury or Hill. She’d seen the headlines coming in: discord in the wake of Shuri’s UN meeting, riots in Times Square, the stirrings of military coups in the Middle East. The world was tenuous, about to snap like a rubber band.  

One wrong move from anyone, superhuman or not, and society would fold like a house of cards. 

At first, she’d hoped that she’d be able to get a hold of someone on the outside. She hated inaction; sure, they were doing things in Wakanda, but burying their noses in books while the world burned felt ridiculous. But now, she had no choice but to open the email. There was nothing from Fury or Hill to distract her; all of their former eyes on the inside were unresponsive. 

_ Hopefully, everyone who needed to get this email has it. Only exception I know of is Rocket, since his tablet is currently part of a space walkie-talkie sitting in Shuri’s lab. And last I checked, Bruce and Thor are off-planet right now.  _

Natasha knew Thor and Bruce were gone. She had seen them pass by her room, practically arm in arm, Bruce prattling in Thor’s ear about things that she could not begin to understand; she had watched them through the crack between the door and the jamb, reluctantly curious. A bit suspicious.  

She could not pretend anymore that she and Bruce had a chance. They had both changed too much. The world had changed. And even now, she was ashamed of herself for how she had treated him - a gun to unload, an animal to cage. That wasn’t love. That could never be love. With the Hulk, it was a means to an end; with Bruce, it was a passing infatuation that she’d taken too far, in a horrendous moment of self-pity and misguided empathy. Lord knew why Bruce went along with it. What a disaster. 

_ Don’t worry about getting them in the loop, though - they’ll see this when they get back. _

So she’d watched Thor and Bruce walk down the hallway, and let her door close. Another door closed, too, that she hadn’t realized was left open for three whole years. Though in the end she couldn’t help herself, and crossed the room to watch the duo walk into the courtyard about ten minutes later. Bruce was decked out in a Wakandan hazmat suit, which Thor had seemed to be teasing him about. It was odd seeing him without hair.  

Thor lifted Stormbreaker, and the Bifrost punched down from the sky to consume them - arcing, crackling, a line of shackled lightning instead of the smooth, elegant lines of the old Bifrost. Perhaps it had something to do with Thor himself, with the power flowing unfettered through his body. 

The light of the Bifrost had vanished.   

Then she’d gotten the email from Clint, and hadn’t realized until then that she’d been staring blankly out the window for nearly three hours. 

_ Okay, here’s the plan.  _

* * *

 

_ Tonight, at 6:00 p.m.,  _ Steve read,  _ we meet in the theater downstairs.  _ He hadn’t known that the palace had a theater - but then, this was Wakanda. If the rumors were correct, they had a cure for cancer lying around in one of their labs; of  _ course  _ they had a movie theater. 

The comb slid through his slick hair. Steve grimaced at himself in the mirror, at the limp greasiness of his hair and the grime still clinging to his skin, and put the comb down. 

_ Directions: from the main atrium, take the stairs going down on the left. Or take the north elevator to the basement and turn right. Follow the smell of popcorn and Wakandan junk food. We’re going all-out on this.   _

He still found it odd, how smoothly Clint stepped up to take charge. A confidence had surged through him that Steve had rarely seen. In their time in the field, Clint blended into the background, filled the gaps. He was a follower. He didn’t take charge. The one time he’d actually taken charge on a mission, in Buenos Aires, he’d saved all their lives. (They’d gotten in trouble with every mob in the area, and Clint had broken his jaw, but they’d come out alive.) 

It was always a last resort; Clint preferred to take a backseat and let Steve or Tony do the driving. It hurt Steve to see Clint doing this - because that should have been him making plans, trying to fix everything, being the hero. Not Clint. He’d lost his  _ children,  _ for fuck’s sake. If anyone deserved to take a break, it was him. 

But try as he might, Steve couldn’t find it in himself to step up again. He didn’t know anything about this magic ring; he barely understood what the Infinity Stones were about. The world sunk its teeth into his soul and thrashed him around like a chew toy. First with Bucky, crumbling to ash in front of him; then Sam dying alone in the bushes, which they’d only found out when they looked at the security footage in the forest. He’d come undone that night, huddled on the floor of his kitchen with his knees up to his chest and his head in his hands, mouth open in a silent scream of despair. 

There wasn’t even any ash of Sam to retrieve. The thunderstorm the night after Thanos’s snap had washed it all away. 

And then he was jerked in the other direction when the Ring was found. His soul practically had whiplash by now. There was hope, maybe. A faint sliver of possibility that it could all be alright - but he understood none of it. It was all new, strange and alien, and he couldn’t bring himself to understand it. __

But sometimes… Sometimes it felt like the Ring understood  _ him  _ all too well.  

Steve made a face and turned off the tablet. He needed a shower.

* * *

 

“Yes - yes, I  _ know,  _ sir,” said James Rhodes. “I regret not being able to be there, but -” 

“I think extenuating circumstances qualify as an excuse,” said James. “Wakanda had the resources we needed, and considering what we were up against, I had to let the Rogues come with. It was our best option. Our  _ only  _ option. Sir.” 

“No, sir,” said James. “It was worse than we thought.” 

“If everyone who was actually qualified to deal with this hadn’t been yanked off the planet, sir, then it might have gone differently,” said James. 

“Oh,” said James. 

“You will?” said James. “That’s… very generous of you, sir, thank you. Thank you very much.” 

The door swung open, and he glanced over his shoulder. Natasha leaned in, brandishing a tablet, and gestured at it while giving him a meaningful look. He nodded once and pointed at his phone. “Definitely, sir,” said James, grimacing at Natasha.  _ President, _ he mouthed.  

She nodded and slipped out, closing the door behind her. James continued, pulling the Wakandan tablet towards him and turning it on, “I’ve… yeah, definitely. Off the record, sir, I’ve thought nearly the same thing about Ross. Never said it, though; not really right for polite conversation...” 

The President kept talking. James skimmed the email that Clint had sent, half-listening and humming in agreement in all the right places. Clint had finally written up exactly what he wanted to do. It was nice that  _ someone, _ at least, had an idea of what to do. 

President Ellis asked a question. “No, not yet,” said James. “There’s a situation in Wakanda that I’m required to help with - no, sir, it’s… classified by the Wakandan government. But once that’s over I can come back to the States. What do you need me to do, sir?” 

“You’re going to  _ what? _ ” said James. “Oh, thank God. And who’s going to take his place?” 

“ _ What!” _

Seven minutes later, James hung up on the President of the United States and put his head in his hands.  

President Ellis had halted James’ court martial and fired Thaddeus Ross. 

And he’d nominated James to replace him as Secretary of State. 

_ And, _ like a complete fucking idiot, James had said yes.  

“Jesus fucking wept,” he muttered, and put his head on the desk. 

If there was anything that James Rhodes was good at, it was herding cats. He’d been friends with Tony for a couple of decades, after all, and wasn’t an Air Force Colonel for nothing. But herding cats on a national scale? On an  _ international  _ one? Hell no. Hell fucking no. Pickings must be really slim if the President was going with  _ him. _

James rolled his head to one side and stared at the edge of his holographic tablet. It wasn’t that he wasn’t honored, or that he wasn’t qualified, just… it was a lot. He just hoped that Ellis wouldn’t try and use him to push the Accords anymore. That ship had sailed and wrecked. Even after Tony had pushed a bunch of amendments through the Accords Council, it was still the Secretary Ross show.  

Fucking Ross. James was glad the President was doing something about the man. He was just becoming a national embarrassment at this point. James was still bitter about Ross going calling a press conference to talk shit about him and tell everyone about his court-martial. Not to be an ass, but he was kind of bitter that Ross hadn’t been Dusted. James had just been trying to do the right thing, for fuck’s sake. That was his main beef with the Accords these days. They were so terrible that they kept Earth’s heroes divided when the world needed them most. He couldn’t stand behind that. Not anymore. 

He took a deep breath and nudged his phone away, picking up the tablet. Damn right, he was trying to do the right thing - and he’d keep on doing that as long as he could. Hopefully Clint’s plan would help them do that. He kept reading where he’d left off. 

_ After we watch the movie, we’ll come back and read the first book in chunks, supplementing it with the appropriate scenes from the film. The book’s kind of hard to parse on its own, so a visual aid will help. It shouldn’t take terribly long. We’re all reasonably smart individuals.  _

He scoffed. 

_ And speaking of smart individuals... _

* * *

 

“Hey, Nebs, listen to this,” Kraglin called.  

The  _ Hammerhand’s  _ bridge rang silent. He and Nebula were the only ones on the ship anymore; the last four members of his crew had hopped on an escape pod and warped back to Ravager territory last night. They knew Kraglin planned on staying on Terra for a while, and didn’t want any part in what he was doing.  

Well. That was entirely fair. Stakar gave the orders to him, and him only. Being the protégé of the late Yondu Udonta counted for something, after all. And he didn’t need the others getting underfoot. 

Nebula didn’t respond. 

“Oi. Nebs. Nebby.  _ Nebula. _ ” 

Nebula was soldering something in her arm, and did not look up. “What,” she said flatly.  

Great, she wasn’t going to stab him for the nicknames. That was a relief. After Ego, their paths had crossed an uncanny amount of times - enough times for them to consider each other allies, but not quite friends. Kraglin could call her if he needed her specific skillset for a job, and she could bunk on the  _ Hammerhand _ if she needed to lie low while hunting Thanos. They - grudgingly - had each other’s backs. 

Still, the first time he’d called her Nebs, she’d nearly thrown him out the airlock of his own damn ship. But they’d moved past that now. Hopefully. 

Anyway. 

“Listen to this,” he said, looking back down at the tablet the Wakandans had given him. “They finally remembered we existed.” 

“What do you mean?” 

He read aloud,  

_ “Everybody who’s interested in working on the translation team for the Ancient One’s annotations, hit me up tomorrow. I specifically want Kraglin, Nebula, Thor and Bruce on the team because of their language expertise, and Tony, Rocket and Queen Shuri for tech support. If anyone else is interested, let me know. _

_ See you all at six. Bring food if you want.   _

_ Clint Barton.”  _

Kraglin hummed thoughtfully and skimmed the email again. “So they want us to help ‘em with translatin’, after we do the crash course on  _ Lord of the Rings _ ,” he mused. “Hm.” 

He was silent for a long, long while, thinking. Personally, he didn’t give a shit about the propaganda - he wouldn’t mind if everyone else did the grunt work and just gave him a short rundown at the end. The Sparknotes, Tony had called them. But the language part… that he could get in on. It’d be a good cover. 

“You’re planning something,” Nebula said. 

Kraglin blinked and glanced up. “C’mon, don’t sound so surprised,” he said, putting the tablet down on the control console. “I got standing orders from Stakar, ya know. I gotta figure out how to carry ‘em out.” 

“What orders?” 

Kraglin blinked at her and said nothing. Nebula glared and touched the soldering iron to a blank stretch of dashboard, making it spark and snap. “You have orders to do something on this planet.  _ What are they, _ ” she said.  

Her tone made it very clear that her soldering iron would be jammed into Kraglin’s testicles on full power if she didn’t get her way. They might’ve been allies, but they weren’t afraid of fighting dirty. 

“Why do you need to know?” Kraglin said. 

Nebula leaned forward. “Because I can help,” she said. 

Kraglin shook his head. “No you can’t. You’re blue as sin - you’ll stick out like a sore thumb as it is, where I’m goin’ -” 

“Ah,” Nebula drawled, with a triumphant, self-satisfied smirk. Kraglin cursed and crossed his arms with a huff. “You’re leaving Wakanda, then.” 

“Am not,” he snapped. 

Nebula shook her head. “Are too,” she said. “You are an open book, Krag. What a shame; you’ll have to disband your one-man Tony Stark fan club, won’t you?” 

His cheeks heated up. “Aw, shut up,” he moaned, turning away. “Nebula, that’s not - c’mon -” 

“I could’ve seen your little guard dog act from Contraxia,” the Luphomoid said, smirking. Kraglin didn’t think she was capable of expressing anything other than rage or cold hatred, but she sure sounded pleased with Kraglin’s discomfort. A sadist, that’s what she was. A fucking sadist. “It’s kind of cute, seeing you yapping at his heels -” 

“Shut  _ up _ , Nebs -” 

“- driving off Steve Rogers with your arrow...” 

“ _ Nebs - _ ” 

“You’re a grown-ass man with a crush -” 

Okay, that was it. Kraglin stood up, his chair spinning slowly, and started to leave the bridge. “Get your shiny metal head out of the gutter,” he barked over his shoulder. Nebula tutted at him. “Don’t swing that way. ‘Sides, asshole’s old enough to be my father.” 

“More like your brother, maybe - he’s almost fifty, same as you.” 

“He is? How’d you know?” 

“I looked it up,” Nebula said blandly. 

“Yeah, good for you.” He paused. “Wait - you callin’ me old?” 

“Yes.” 

“Fuck you.”  

Nebula gnashed her teeth. He’d be lying if he said that didn’t scare him a little. Kraglin took a deep breath and added, “C’mon, Nebs - cut me some slack. You didn’t hear him. He told me everything ‘bout his life. You know that thing in his chest? The nanosuit? That thing’s basically a self-sustaining miniaturized K’lanti reactor. He’s walking around with a bomb powerful enough to level the Bank of the Shi’ar in his chest.” 

Nebula blinked.  

“He wiped out the whole Chitauri army,” Kraglin went on. “He kept a whole planet from being destroyed. He made a new fucking  _ element  _ in the  _ basement  _ of his goddamn  _ mansion _ . Did all that while bein’ used and abused by every fucker who saw his money and brains -” 

“You’re reading too much into what he told you,” Nebula said warningly. “Both of you were drunk. I wouldn’t give him that much credit, if I were you.” 

And hell, if that didn’t make Kraglin mad. He sympathized with the poor fucker. “You fought with him on Titan, didn’t you? You know what he’s capable of. He’s seen shit,” Kraglin said, waving a finger at her. “Not as much as I have, but he’s seen it. Ain’t nobody deserves to get kicked around by the world like that, and… and if I can keep the world off his back a little longer, then damn it, I’ll do it.” 

He’d known people who did that for him. Hell, he’d done that for Quill a handful of times - helped him out when he was just a squirt, taught him the ins and outs of wiring a ship and picking up girls, to distract him from the crushing reality of his new life as a Ravager. Until that falling-out on Contraxia, they’d been best of friends. Quill was the closest thing Kraglin had to a brother. And their relationship had just started getting better, too, before the Dusting.  

Fuck Thanos. Fuck him with a goddamn white-hot fuel shaft extension. 

When he stopped talking, Nebula just stared at him, her eyes beady and black. At last, she gave him a jerky nod. Kraglin felt briefly triumphant. Then she said, “So, where are you going?” 

Kraglin groaned and slammed his head into his hands. “ _ Stop it,  _ Nebs,” he said, turning away. “You’re not in that loop. Leave it alone.” 

“No.”  

He heard her put down the soldering iron and stand up, and froze. She was ominously silent for a long while. He searched the reflective surfaces in front of him, so he could see if she was aiming any weapons at his back. At last, she said, “I have a right to know.” 

“No you don’t,” Kraglin said, without turning around. 

“I do. If it’s anything that might get you on Thanos’s radar, then I need to know.” 

Kraglin scoffed. “Why? So if he comes running, you know when to get the hell off the planet? Turn tail and run?” 

“No.” 

He turned, raising his eyebrows. 

Nebula’s eyes bored into his. “If you plan on calling attention back to Earth for any reason,” she said, her mechanical voice harsh and grating, “I want to know. So I can wait for him. I can find him. And I can kill him.” 

Kraglin swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. In that moment, he was so, so glad that Nebula’s rage wasn’t directed at him. “Well, you’re shit out of luck with me,” he croaked. “I - I’m doing something really low profile, it won’t even be a blip on his radar.” 

“How low profile?” Nebula said. 

He grimaced, and looked away. “Hopefully low enough,” he muttered. Enough to avoid Thanos? Absolutely. Enough to avoid the Wakandans? He really fucking hoped so. If what the Terrans had told him about Wakanda was true, this country was on par with the Sovereign when it came to technology. But if his tentative plan to look for Stakar’s old friend was going to work…  

Nebula raised an eyebrow. Kraglin looked back at her, took a deep breath, and sighed, “How much d’you know ‘bout Phalanx coding?” 

Her eyes glittered. “Enough,” she said, which was a huge understatement. Kraglin had seen her spinal cybernetics once, and could tell they were modified Phalanx constructs. The hivemind species had everyone beat on nervous-system cybernetics. Nebula had to service them herself; of course she knew Phalanx tech, inside and out. “What would I have to do?” 

Kraglin took a deep breath and told her. 

* * *

 

_ The world is bathed in blue.  _

_ It is silent.  _

_ He spends an eternity on the shitty couch in his lab, an echo of an echo of a time gone by. There are faint scorch marks on the cushions, which flicker like a glitching hologram between leather and cloth and vinyl.  _

_ He presses his hand to the marks and looks up. Across the lab. Into the dim. He blinks slowly.  _

_ The endless night of the hall stretches before him, the suits lined on either side like sentinels. He watches the shadow for any signs of movement, and waits.  _

_ And waits.  _

__

When he finally woke, Tony could not say for sure what he’d been waiting for.  

The buzzing of his tablet on the bedside table was what woke him - incessant and beyond obnoxious, like the drone of military helicopters overhead. Tony slowly sat up, hissing as his body protested.  “Ooh,” he muttered. “Ouch. God damn, that hurts.” His joints were going off like fireworks. God, he hated getting old.  

He skimmed the email he’d been sent. Clint was already putting his master plan in gear, to get them all caught up on Earth’s version of the space propaganda. Personally, Tony thought it was kind of a waste of time, though Clint’s reasoning was sound - they needed to know the backstory of what they’d found, and Thor wasn’t exactly a gold mine of information. Fishing for scraps in the stories was better than flying blind. 

Still. If it were him, Tony would be focusing on the Ancient One’s annotations and translating them. She’d apparently spent centuries with the thing; if anyone knew anything about it, it was her. He skimmed the email - he got the gist of it, theater at six, bring food, capeesh caposh - and got to the bottom. 

“Well, how about that,” he said, squinting at the last paragraph. Clint wanted him for “tech support” on Shuri’s translator. Hell. That’d be fun - if Shuri was coding it, and he was going to help, that’d probably mean that he’d have to learn Wakandan coding. Tony moaned audibly just thinking about it. God, that was going to be amazing. Thinking about Wakandan tech was like getting ambrosia shot straight into his arteries. He could hardly wait. It’d really lighten the load of the shitty week he’d had. 

The air quivered suddenly. Tony froze, cocked his head towards the window. 

Then a massive thunderclap tore the air, and light exploded through the window - a crackling tube of lightning as wide as four Hulkbusters side by side. Tony scrambled out of bed and stumbled towards the window, propping himself up on whatever furniture he could grab. His legs were still weak beneath him. 

He knew what the light was, now - the Bifrost, coming down from the late afternoon sky to wreak havoc on the Wakandan’s landscaping. Thor and Bruce had left sometime before his nap; Tony had watched the light show through his half-open eyes, before promptly rolling over and falling asleep. They must have had a very interesting heart-to-heart in Bruce’s room, after he and Wong had left. 

Tony was still trying to put his finger on that. Whatever was between Bruce and Thor. Even in the days right before Ultron, when everyone put on the guise of a big happy family and moved into the tower, they were just casual friends; and their wild adventures in space had only lasted a couple of days. But Bruce had practically been in tears when he said that Thor was dead, back in the Sanctum. And they rarely left each other’s sides these days. 

Hm. He’d have to get to the bottom of this. Maybe later. 

The light of the Bifrost evaporated, and Tony’s mouth fell open. “What the fuck _ _ ,” he said, his breath fogging the glass. 

Thor and Bruce were back. And they had the  _ Benatar _ with them - as battered and broken as it had been on Titan, but otherwise in one piece. “What in the  _ fuck, _ ” he said again. 

Thor was standing on its roof, his axe in one hand and the other gripping a protruding piece of metal. And if he squinted, he could see Bruce sitting in the cockpit. The  _ Hammerhand  _ loomed behind them, like a dog next to a mosquito. At the right angle, Kraglin’s monster hunk-of-junk ship blocked out the sun. 

The hatch opened. Bruce clambered out, and Thor skidded across the roof to meet him. They hit the ground simultaneously, and looked around to see if everything was still in one piece; Thor tried to fist-bump Bruce, and Bruce tried to high-five Thor, and they laughed helplessly. 

Tony blinked. Huh. 

Then he saw a tiny shadow scampering towards them, on all fours - Rocket, he realized. The last 

Guardian. Something crushed his chest, squeezing his heart like a tin can. Rocket was so desperate to get there that he was running on all fours;  _ on all fours,  _ like the creature he’d been built from. He was so desperate, so broken, that he was willing to risk his pride for this.  

This morning, on the way to the conference room, Tony had peeked into Rocket’s room and seen him clutching a pillow for dear life, dwarfed by his massive bed and shivering uncontrollably with tears. He’d silently closed the door and gone off to debrief. Some moments weren’t meant to be seen. 

Tony watched Rocket run up to Thor and Bruce, and freeze five feet away from the ship. They stared at each other, talking about something. Bruce knelt, and Thor flopped down to sit cross-legged on the ground. Rocket didn’t seem to even be looking at them; his gaze was fixed on the mangled  _ Benatar _ , and all the broken bits of hull and engine that Thor managed to drag along in the Bifrost. 

Something tugged at him. 

Rocket slowly walked between the two men, absentmindedly patting Thor on the shoulder. Thor and Bruce quickly stood and followed Rocket into the  _ Benatar.  _ Damage control. Smart. There was no telling what the raccoon would do, when he hit the cockpit and saw those empty seats. Tony had a strange urge to whistle “Empty Chairs and Empty Tables” from  _ Les Miserables, _ but immediately crushed it. That was a bit too on-the-nose. Even for him. 

Then he realized what was tugging at his heart, and slumped into the desk chair. “Shit,” he breathed. 

“Shit-fucking hell, I’m stupid.” 

He’d completely forgotten about Pepper. 

Almost immediately, Tony slammed his hand on the arc reactor and let the suit crawl over him, and the HUD flickered in front of him.  

There was a soft crackle, and a voice: “Boss?” 

“FRIDAY, thank fuck,” Tony said, tilting his head back. His eyes pricked with tears. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice.” 

“It’s a relief to hear you, too,” said FRIDAY. There was joy in her artificial voice, and it warmed his chest to hear it. “Boss, I’m so glad you’re okay - I thought the worst when you left the atmosphere…” 

“Yeah,” Tony said, cutting her off. “So did I. Hey, um -” He flicked his wrist and visually keyed in a few codes; everything except one of his gauntlets and the helmet retracted into the arc reactor again. He tapped the side of his helmet, and the nanobots reformed into a headset. “FRIDAY. Uh. Tell me, is Pepper alright?” 

“She is, boss,” FRIDAY said smoothly, and Tony nearly passed out from relief. He slowly pressed one hand to his face, shaking. God. Pepper was okay.  _ She was okay. _ “Do you want me to call her?” 

“Please,” he croaked. “Video call, if you can swing it.” 

“Of course, boss.” 

He slid the gauntlet off and twitched his fingers; the nanos swirled and reformed into a hologram projector, which he put on his desk. His hands gripped each other tightly, to hide how they were shaking. 

Pepper picked up on the first ring. Her face shimmered into view, and it felt like Tony’s chest had been torn in two, looking at her worried face again. “Oh, God, Pepper,” he choked out, and unconsciously reached for the hologram. 

Pepper clapped a hand to her mouth. “Tony,” she breathed.  

Tony’s hand went just a little too far and disturbed the light of the hologram, and seeing Pepper’s image dissolve a bit snapped him back to reality. Pepper reached out, too, her manicured hand obscuring the camera. He could see her fingers shaking, and the sight pushed him over the edge. Tears streamed down his cheeks.  

“Pepper, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, pulling his hand away from the hologram. “I - I didn’t know it would get so bad.” 

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I know.” One hand was still pressed to her mouth. Her engagement ring shone on her hand. 

Her eyes were so, so red, and the sight made Tony’s chest ache. “A few tears for your long-lost boss?” he quipped, giving her a shaky smile. She choked, the hand falling away from her mouth. She was smiling now, a shaky and watery smile. 

They sat there in silence a while, just looking at each other. The distance between them stretched, tenuous and tense. At last, Pepper said, “Where are you?” 

 “Wakanda,” Tony said heavily. “Pep, I’m  - I’m sorry, I can’t go back to New York right now. God, I want to, more than anything, but I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“I got beat up bad.” He swallowed, and wiped his eyes. “I… I got stabbed. Shit happened. I can barely walk right now, and I’m in no shape to get on a jet or in the suit and get back home.” 

Pepper sighed, and looked down. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That’s horrible.” 

“Besides, we’re… we’re working on stuff,” Tony said lamely. Something told him to keep the whole Ring thing from Pepper, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the tilt of her shoulders, the bruised-purple shadows under her eyes. Pepper was burdened by something; Tony didn’t want to add to that. 

Instead, he said, “We’re working on a plan to stop Thanos.” 

“Who’s ‘we’?” Pepper interrupted. Her eyes flashed up to his, and something in her eyes made him stop breathing. “Who is in Wakanda with you?” 

He swallowed. “Um.” 

“Is Peter with you?” she said softly. 

Slowly, Tony shook his head. His hands started to shake, and he clenched them into fists, bringing one up to his mouth as if to punch the grief back into his body. “I lost him,” he whispered. 

Unexpectedly, Pepper’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she honest-to-God started crying again. “No,” she said, dropping her head. “Oh, no. I can’t -” She pressed a hand to her mouth again and looked somewhere out of frame, her eyes filled with something like dread. Her breath left her in a shuddering exhale. Somehow, that made Tony feel even worse than before. 

“How did it happen?” she said, still looking away. 

“Pepper -” 

“I’m not going to ask again, Tony, how did it happen?” she repeated, a bite to her words that nearly made Tony recoil. 

He swallowed, and tried to find the words. “It was Thanos,” he said heavily. “We - we ended up on Titan, with some others. We fought. We lost. Thanos snapped his fingers, and…” He waved his hand vaguely. 

“Gone.” 

Pepper nodded slowly. “So it was painless,” she murmured. “Like the others.” Tears still ran down her cheeks. 

 “It wasn’t,” Tony said, before he could stop himself. Realization dawned on him, cold and creeping down his spine. 

_          Mr. Stark? I don’t feel so good… _

“He could feel it happening to him,” he said breathlessly, and Pepper’s eyes darted up to his, wide and panicked. “His Spidey senses. Fuck,” he said, and put his head in his hands. The kid had felt every second of it. How much pain was he in? How much did it hurt? Again, he felt like crying. 

Pepper was staring at him, aghast. “Oh, no,” she said. She shook her head. “Oh, God. Tony, that’s… how am I supposed to tell -” 

And she broke off. Her face screwed up, and she bowed her head. Tony frowned. “Tell who,” he said, leaning forward. “Pepper, what - what’s going on?” 

“Tony.” 

Pepper took a deep, deep breath and slowly released it. When she raised her head again, her eyes were nearly blank. Tony felt unease thread through his gut. “Tony, I think you should stay in Wakanda for the time being,” she said. 

He nearly jerked backwards. “Why?” 

“I want you as healthy as possible before you come back,” Pepper said, CEO persona in full effect. Something must be really, really wrong 

“What - no, Pepper, I want to come back,” he insisted. “I don’t -” 

“Tony, listen to me,” Pepper said. “I know what you’re feeling right now. You want to change things, you want to  _ fix  _ things - and whatever plan you all have in Wakanda is going to fix it, I’m sure. I can see that look in your eyes. You need to stay there so you can fix this.” 

_ I don’t know if we can, though, _ Tony thought. Out loud, he said, “We’re trying.” 

“I know. And keep going,” she said, and sat up straight. “Tony, I’ve got a lot on my plate.” 

“Is everything okay?” he said, suddenly alarmed. 

She gave a short, sharp sigh. “Half of our global staff vanished in the Dusting,” she said. “I’ve been wrestling with that, while trying to cobble together a press conference to address everything and…” She cast a slightly guilty look to the upper corner of the hologram screen. “Other things,” she said. “I just… there’s a lot, and if you came back with your whole planning committee in tow, I’d just be in the way.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tony sputtered. “You’ve never been in the way before, and you’ve done much more complex things, I know for sure -” 

Something buzzed, and Pepper’s eyes flicked to it. Her face went white; even through the blue-tinged hologram, Tony could see it, and he frowned. “I have a call that I have to take, Tony,” she said, her lips pursed. “I -” 

For a moment, she faltered, and the CEO persona flickered and dropped away. She looked strangely vulnerable in hologram form - wan and pale, as if part of her had been erased. “I love you,” she said softly. 

“I love you too,” Tony said. He reached out again for Pepper’s image; she pressed her fingers to her lips and reached out, the tips of her fingers warping slightly as they hit the camera. “I love you, so much,” Tony said, his voice cracking. “Stay safe.” 

Something odd flickered across Pepper’s face, and she gave him a sad smile. “I will, Tony,” she said. “I promise.” 

And the hologram flickered out. Tony took a deep breath and slowly, slowly lowered his head to the desk. 

* * *

 

They filed into the theater like mourners into a wake - sullen, silent, standing stiff as boards and trying not to let the weight of the room crash down on them. The theater was a hastily-assembled affair - but of course, hastily-assembled for Wakanda was phenomenal by any other standards.  

It was an honest-to-God movie theater, Steve thought, as he lingered near the door and glanced around. With a screen as wide across as a semi-trailer was long and hundreds of speakers lining the walls, he could believe that they were walking into an IMAX. But instead of comfortable rows of seats, there were a handful of office chairs and desks arranged in front of the screen. A few pens and pads of paper sat on each desk. A table laden with Wakandan food and coffee stretched along the left wall. 

Near the front of the room, an office chair spun around, like that of a villain in his secret lair. Clint sat cross-legged in it, with a bowl of sweet potato fries in his lap and his coffee mug in hand. “Hey, everyone,” he said cheerfully. “C’mon in, take a seat.” 

A gently hissing portal opened by the snack table, and Wong stepped through. Several bags of potato chips and other junk foods drifted behind him, and he levitated them onto the table. Kraglin cautiously picked up a family-sized bag of Cheetos and took a seat in the middle row.  

“Office chairs? Are you serious?” said Bruce, pushing past Steve. Thor followed close behind. A fine layer of orange dust clung to the god’s clothes, drifting down to the floor. Steve stared at him. “I’ve seen comfier chairs in waiting rooms at the doctor’s office.” 

“Well, what did you expect, leather armchairs?” Clint called over his shoulder. His chair was still spinning, and a ghost of a smile flickered across Steve’s face. “Sadly, this isn’t a casual movie night. We’re here to take notes and learn shit, and we can’t do that if you’re falling asleep ‘cause you’re too comfy. Think of it as a lecture hall. Gotta come to class, or you’re gonna get schooled.” 

“Clint, that made no sense,” said Natasha.  

“Kinda did,” Steve muttered. 

Natasha strode past, gently patting Steve on the shoulder, and made her way to the empty seat by Clint in the front row. Shadows flickered by her feet; Steve looked down, and saw Rocket scuttling along in the dark. He swiped a couple of sandwiches and sat at one end of the middle row, impossibly dwarfed by the desk chair. 

Bruce scoffed quietly. “I fell asleep in my lecture halls all the time, and look at me now,” he muttered to Thor, who hummed vaguely and grabbed a whole platter of Wakandan sandwiches and a few drinks from the table. They chose seats in the middle of the back row; Thor set the plate down between him and Bruce, and sat down in his chair. 

“See,” said Clint, “These chairs are fine. Just grin and bear it, okay?” 

_ Crack! _

The chair promptly broke beneath Thor. Everyone winced as his head hit the table on the way down, nearly launching the plate of sandwiches into Bruce’s lap.  

Wong blinked owlishly at Thor, sprawled in an ungainly heap of limbs on the ground, and sighed. “They’re fine, huh,” he said to Clint, who at least had the dignity to stop spinning. With an impatient sniff, he twitched his fingers, summoning glowing orange disks around his wrists, and pointed at the chairs one by one. They changed into comfortable leather armchairs so quickly that Steve had to look twice, just to be sure he wasn’t imagining it. 

They settled into their new comfortable chairs with gusto. Steve slipped along the back row and took the seat next to Thor, at the very end of the row of tables. Thor glanced over and gave him a polite nod, and did not look his way again. Steve lowered himself into the armchair, casting looks at Thor from the corner of his eye.  

The god’s presence next to him still lit his nerves on fire with panic. Had he and Bruce gotten themselves in the loop with the Accords? Even though it had been two years since the Civil War, the wounds it had left on the world were still fresh. Steve had no idea where Thor’s alliances lay - though, hopefully, they would be a team again, and everything would be smoothed over. 

But still. The panic he’d felt in the conference room that first day, when everyone who was left had sat down to talk about the Ring for the very first time, had not left him. And perhaps in his weariness, he had let it show too much. Thor had given him suspicious looks throughout that meeting. As if he knew he was hiding something. 

Siberia was a secret. The only ones who knew about it were the ones who were there - and Nat, who’d pried the story out of him once he’d returned. But Steve was reluctant to tell the others what had happened, because it wasn’t completely his story to tell. 

Clint stood up and brandished his coffee mug for attention. In the front row, at the corner opposite from Steve, Shuri was fiddling with her kimoyo beads to queue up the movie. “Okay, everyone, quick show of hands,” Clint called. “Who here hasn’t seen this movie?” 

Steve slowly raised his hand. So did Thor and the aliens. None of his earthbound teammates raised their hands, and Steve felt a small pang in his chest at being left out yet again. After six years, he thought he would’ve been used to being out of the loop, but he guessed not. 

“Great,” Clint said, flashing a cheerful grin. “You’re all in for a treat, then. Make sure you take notes, though - write down any questions you might have. Please put your phones on silent, to not disturb the viewing pleasure of your companions, yada yada yada.” Shuri glanced at Clint and gave him a curt nod, and he gave her a thumbs-up. “Okay, enjoy the show,” he said to the room, to muted applause. 

Steve leaned back in his chair, idly spinning a pen between his fingers. He watched its path, watched the steadily-dimming lights reflect on its surface. This was all very surreal. It was like the movie night they’d had a couple of weeks before Ultron - in a time so far from theirs that it felt like last century’s news. Tony had insisted on  _ The Princess Bride _ , saying it was a cinematic masterpiece that they had to watch. Then he’d fallen asleep halfway through, but that was alright, because Steve liked the movie anyway. It was a bit punchy at times, but it was still a good story. 

But this? 

Steve watched the logo -  _ New Line Cinemas, _ some kind of visual play on railroads and film strips - drift across the screen. This - this was a mockery. It was a sick, sad parody. Watching movies after the apocalypse; holding onto fiction, with the tiniest hope that it might make real life more bearable. If Steve had it his way, he would be watching this movie in peacetime, with his friends - to see the story and love it for what it was.  

It was surreal, putting their lives in the hands of a story. It was  _ ridiculous.  _ His fist clenched around the pen, and he carefully set it down so he wouldn’t break it.  

Darkness fell. A high, ethereal note drifted through the theater, sharp as wind howling over snow. Steve suddenly felt cold all over; a choir began to sing, voices high and pale.  

**_NEW LINE CINEMAS_ **

**_presents_ **

...

**_a_ **

**_WINGNUT FILMS_ **

**_production_ **

A voice whispered, in a language Steve had never heard. And a woman spoke over that otherworldly language, voice low and sibilant: 

_ “The world is changed.” _

The thin, ethereal music and the whispered voice filled the air around him, vibrating, tugging on something within his soul. It had the feeling of a haunting eulogy to things dead and gone.  

_ “Much that once was,”  _ said the mournful voice, subtitled on the bottom of the screen,  _ “is lost… for none now live who remember it.”   _

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, stunned by the sudden sting of tears, and ducked his head. He pulled a piece of paper towards him and started to write notes, to distract himself. 

Rings were forged and freely given. Flame surged across the screen: armies charging, creatures as misshapen and hideous as the Outriders laying waste to the land.  

_ “One by one, the Free Lands of Middle Earth fell to the power of the Ring,” _ said the voice. Directly in front of him, Kraglin muttered something in Nebula’s ear. His fin briefly blocked the screen, and Steve gritted his teeth. 

_ “But there were some who resisted.”  _

A great mass of slender figures in elegant armor strode across a volcanic plain. Mount Doom loomed before them, its slopes crawling with orcs. The camera jumped around a lot - to the men, the elves, even a few close-ups on the orc army. Kraglin pointed lazily at the screen and said, trying to be quiet and failing, “Hey, Nebs, you see that one, with the broken nose? I fought a Skrull in a bar once that looked like ‘im.”  

Nebula elbowed him, her eyes glued to the screen. 

The camera swept along the lines of Elves, and then snapped to one - stupidly helmetless, long brown hair flying in the noxious breeze. Steve’s breath froze in his lungs, and the pen snapped in his hand. 

It was Johann Schmidt.  _ Johann fucking Schmidt. _

“Steady, Rogers,” Thor muttered, noticing Steve’s tension; the leather of his chair squeaked as he leaned forward.

Steve forced air into his lungs and nodded sharply. He doubted Thor knew anything about Schmidt, other than a few passing references - he couldn’t know what the man looked like. Briefly, Steve imagined the man on the screen digging his fingers under his flesh, pulling off his face to reveal a blood-red glowering skull beneath. 

He reached for a new pen, and glanced back at Thor. The god of thunder gave him another nod - briefly sympathetic - and focused on the screen again, a deep furrow between his brows. In the chair next to him, Bruce was silently mouthing the words to the voiceover, smiling faintly. The man’s eyes flicked between the screen, Thor, and - 

And Tony. 

Steve looked away quickly, but his eyes slid slowly back. 

He hadn’t noticed Tony coming in; the man must have slipped in after the lights went down. Tony sat between Bruce and Wong, leaning on one arm of his wheelchair and writing notes. A tiny glowing light hovered between him and Wong, shimmering the iridescent blue of his arc reactor. If Steve looked closely enough, or if his imagination ran wild enough, he could see the same blue light glimmering around his fingers. 

On the screen, Sauron’s helmet crashed to the ground, smoke pouring from its eyes. Tony’s eyes slowly lifted to meet Steve’s. Steve’s heart skipped a beat; this was the first time they’d made eye contact since that disaster in the hospital room. To Steve’s surprise, Tony gave him a curt nod and returned to his notes. 

Steve exhaled, and turned back to the screen. 

_ “The hearts of men are easily corrupted.”  _

A close-up on the Ring, clanking on the ornate breastplate of a noble man - dark eyes gleaming, long brown hair slightly unkempt. The man’s appearance made Steve grit his teeth, the feeling of  _ wrong, wrong  _ skittering along his spine. 

The man put on the Ring and vanished, diving into the river as the orcs ambushed him. Arrows, blood in the water. The Ring spiraled down into the murky depths of the river, and Steve swallowed, huddling into his chair. In his mind’s eye, he saw murky waters lit by explosions, a glimmering metal arm; a long, long fall. He pursed his lips and tugged a piece of paper towards him. 

_ Ring,  _ he wrote.  _ Mind of its own, betrayed… _

He glanced up and looked at the subtitles.  _ Isildur. Right. _ He carefully copied down the letters. The subtitles, while a bit distracting, were very helpful. 

_ “History became legend. Legend became myth.”  _

Kraglin loudly tore open the bag of Cheetos, and everyone hissed at him to be quiet. 

_ “And for two and a half thousand years, the Ring passed out of all knowledge.”  _

Silt swirled in the river water, and a grotesque hand reached down. 

_ “Until, when chance came, it ensnared a new bearer.”  _

The thin white hand opened, revealing the Ring swimming in river water and grime - 

_ “My… precious,” _ crooned a guttural, rotten voice. Steve’s stomach lurched, hearing it; as the Ring shimmered on the screen, his temples started to throb, and he rubbed them. In the front row, Natasha suddenly choked on her popcorn. Clint reached over and thumped her back, but she nudged his hand away. Steve craned his neck around Kraglin and his godforsaken fin to see if she was okay.  

_ “Darkness crept back into the forests of the world.”   _

“Watch it,” muttered Thor, and Steve realized he was leaning into Thor’s chair; he muttered a quick apology and sat back. Thor’s eyes were squeezed shut, as if he was warding off a migraine.  

_ “Rumor grew of a Shadow in the East...whispers of a nameless fear.”   _

On Thor’s other side, Bruce hugged his stomach and leaned back in his chair, grimacing. 

_ “And the Ring of Power perceived...its time had now come. It abandoned Gollum.”  _

Steve felt his stomach roll and put down his pen. 

The Ring fell down the incline, bouncing off the rock; each ping on the stone stabbed through the room like a dagger. Steve’s ears hurt, and he cringed. A deep rumbling filled the room - like a growl, of a great unseen beast. 

_ “But something happened then, that the Ring did not intend.”  _

In the dark, a small fumbling hand closed over the Ring. 

_ “It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable…  _

_          “What’s this?  _

_ “A Hobbit - Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”  _

Despite his mounting headache, Steve grinned when he saw the hobbit: still well-to-do, prim and proper in his red jacket and waistcoat. He remembered this scene well; his dog-eared copy of  _ The Hobbit, _ still a new release in the years just before the war, was one of his favorite stories growing up. Maybe when this whole mess was over, he would watch the movies they’d made to see if they were any good. 

A quiet noise of disbelief came from his left. “A Hobbit?” Thor muttered. “My father never mentioned  _ them.”  _

“Yeah, well, we established that Daddy Dearest didn’t have the best track record for honesty,” Bruce said sourly. “Tolkien wrote  _ The Hobbit  _ as a standalone book, and only wrote the other books because -” 

“Be quiet,” Shuri snapped, from the front row. Bruce stared at the back of her head, taken aback by the venom in her voice. Steve tried to return to the movie, but the quiet undercurrent of tension in the room made it impossible to focus. 

Kraglin tilted his neck and popped it, and scoffed, “Look at ‘im. Never seen a more ridiculous creature in my life.” 

Ridiculous creature?  _ Ridiculous – _

Steve nearly stood up, an irrational anger stirring in his gut. “Hey,” he said sternly, and the alien turned around, leering at him. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s got more power in him that you might realize.” All he could think of was the tale of Bilbo Baggins and how he faced down a dragon. As a young and sickly child, he loved to read stories of underdogs, of people the world saw as weak saving the day. 

On the other side of the theater, Rhodes stood up and walked to the back of the theater. 

Kraglin’s lip curled; not the same protective anger that Steve saw when he first landed, Tony’s unconscious body in tow, but something just plain  _ mean. _ A roaring filled Steve’s ears. “They’re not real, idjit,” the alien snarled. The images on the screen flickered on the metal of his fin. He had a flash of a time gone by, yelling at an asshole in another movie theater. “Even if they were, they’d be next to useless.” 

Something washed over Steve, a kind of old, sickening rage: the rage of being cornered in an alley, of holding a garbage can lid to shield himself - undercut by a deeper, darker rage that he hadn’t felt since the war… 

He stood up, ignoring Bruce’s suddenly alarmed shout, and walked around the table. Kraglin whistled for his arrow. 

_ “For the time will soon come,”  _ said the voice, _ “when Hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.”  _

The film juddered to a halt, and anger roiled in the absence of the movie’s soundtrack. Steve felt hands on him, tugging him back and away from Kraglin. He quickly dropped his fists. It was then that he heard the rush of whispers, tense snippy arguments happening in corners. Natasha was chewing out Clint for trying to help her stop choking; he brandished his ever-present travel mug like a club and snapped back. Nebula was holding a fucking knife to Rocket’s throat. 

Rhodes’ hands were still on his shoulders. “Sorry,” Steve breathed, glancing at him. Rhodes didn’t seem to hear; he was glaring at Tony, who was glaring at Wong, who was blinking around the room with slight confusion. Closer to him, Thor and Bruce’s argument had devolved into loud snarls and snide comments; Thor had seized Bruce’s collar, and Bruce’s hands were clenched into fists. In the dim light of the screen, Steve couldn’t see any tinges of green, but he watched Bruce closely just to be sure. 

He glanced around the room one more time, guilt pooling in his gut, and froze. 

Shuri was staring directly at him. Her young face was twisted with something between rage and fear. Her hand was still poised over the kimoyo beads controlling the projector. The look in her eyes twisted the knife in Steve’s chest further, and he forced himself to look away. 

But his eyes landed on the one person who didn’t seem changed at all by this. Wong. With sinking realization, he stared at the man, at the slightly confused placidness of his face, and said, “Wong.” 

Wong raised his eyebrows. 

“Where’s the Ring?” 

Silence fell. 

Slowly, the confusion on Wong’s face faded to horrified understanding. “It’s with me,” the sorcerer said, aghast. He stood up. “Damn it, I’m sorry.” 

“Why is it with you?” Nebula said, still holding out her knife. Rocket slowly nudged it away from his throat and scampered back to his chair. “Why don’t you have it somewhere else?” 

Wong shook his head. “I could not leave the Ring unguarded in the Sanctum,” he said regretfully. “I failed to guard one artifact, and I’m not going to do the same with this one.” 

Steve frowned. “How come you’re not…” He gestured vaguely at the room around them. 

“It’s shielded,” the sorcerer said. He grimaced. “Granted, it’s only shielded for me, and not everyone else -” 

“Why not?” 

“Range,” Wong said to Tony. “I’ll explain later. Look,” he said to the room, standing up. He lifted his hand and carved a portal into the air. “We have internet at the Sanctum. If Netflix hasn’t gone down, then I’ll just watch the movies there.” 

“Oh, okay,” said Clint. 

“I’ll just Skype in if you guys need me.” Wong grimaced at the room and stepped through the portal. “Sorry,” he said, “I’d love to stay. But I have to watch the Ring, too, and I can’t do both at the same time if you’re going at each other’s throats like this. See you all later.” 

The portal hissed shut, and Wong was gone. 

Instantly, the stifling tension of the room disappeared. Everyone physically reeled and collapsed into their chairs, like in the aftermath of a battle. Steve could see Shuri’s hands shaking visibly, her eyes hollow and wild, as if she’d seen something unforgivable. 

“This is wrong,” Bruce said shakily. Steve turned to see him leaning forward in his chair, his hands pressed to both sides of his head. Thor sat still in his chair, completely still. “This is very wrong, this isn’t - right,” said Bruce. “The Ring’s not supposed to be that - that strong -” 

“Council of Elrond,” Tony said immediately, snapping his fingers, as if that was the answer. “Literally what just went down.” 

Steve knew the name, but he didn’t know what that meant. “What’s that?” he said blankly. 

“Let’s just… keep watching,” Clint said faintly, from the front of the room. His knuckles were white around his travel mug. “You’ll find out.” He slowly sank into his chair, looking clammy and pale in the light from the screen. It may have just been a trick of the light, but it seemed as though a murky golden light shone on his face, hollowing his cheekbones and casting his eyes in shadow.  

He blinked, and the moment was gone. Rhodes gave him a pat on the shoulder and strode back to his own seat, his back prosthetic whirring. 

As they all settled in, Steve leaned forward and tapped Kraglin on the shoulder. His head whipped around. “I’m sorry about that,” Steve said softly. “I don’t know what got into me.” 

Kraglin grunted. “ ‘S alright,” he said, turning back to the screen. He didn’t seem too fazed by what had happened; he seemed to have recovered quickly from the Ring’s influence, having been one of the first to get their bearings and sit back down. At first, Steve put it down to Kraglin being an alien; after all, he couldn’t expect the artifact to affect them all in the same ways.  

But then he looked along the middle row, and saw that Rocket was still shaking, glaring murderously at Nebula to hide his panic. Nebula herself had broken out in a cold sweat. Steve grimaced and sat back in his seat. He shouldn’t worry about that. The Ring was away from them now. He should just sit back and hope for the best. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE ULTRA LATE UPDATE, I got swamped with real life stuff and Thorbruce week was really distracting. If you like that kind of stuff, feel free to read my fics "Petrichor" and "Bring Them Home." Anyway. This fic is kind of kicking my ass, and I'd like to hear what you guys think about it. Anything. Good or bad. Constructive criticism, suggestions, opinions, anything. I really like this and want to continue it, but the well is starting to dry up.
> 
> Anyway - kudos and comments appreciated, as always. Thanks for reading!


	13. In Time Gone By

So they  _ were _ watching the extended editions. Bruce didn’t realize they were, until the “Concerning Hobbits” scene began to play out of nowhere and left him reeling. It was a rather cute scene, going into the lifestyle and culture of hobbits. In any other setting, he would have happily sat back to watch.  

Thor’s quiet presence next to him, still and silent, was distracting him. 

To be completely honest, it had terrified Bruce when they started snapping at each other; it felt as if the words were yanked from his mouth against his will. And he’d been scared shitless when Thor grabbed the front of his shirt to snarl at him, almost tilting over the chair. He could still feel the fabric tugging around his neck. Times like that, Bruce was acutely aware that Thor could probably literally crush his skull with his bare hands. 

“We’re fine, right?” Bruce said softly. 

After a pause, his attention still divided between Bruce and the screen, Thor nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He cleared his throat awkwardly and added, “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” 

_ “That was good!”  _

_          “Let’s get another one!”  _

Gandalf swooped in to pinch their ears and drag them off to do the party’s dishes. That scene never failed to make Bruce smile - a bit sadly, knowing what was to come for the two, but it was still entertaining. 

Thor spoke. 

“They remind me of my brother and me,” he said softly. The other man’s eyes had drifted from the screen, and he was now looking at Bruce with an unreadable expression on his face. “When we were young.” 

Bruce swallowed, and gently reached out to pat Thor on the shoulder. Thor’s gaze returned to the screen. 

In front of them, Rocket reached for a pen.

* * *

 

The screams of a tortured creature sliced through the theater. Rocket hugged his knees to his chest and glared at the screen, tapping his pen against his leg.  

_          “Shire! Bagginssss!”  _

Blech. D’ast thing sounded like a drowning Orloni. The Nazgul rode from the creepy-ass green building, and the background music throbbed in Rocket’s skull. He slid off his chair, crawled under the table, and walked over to Kraglin’s end of the row. Kraglin seemed transfixed enough by the movie, so Rocket quickly swiped his bag of Cheetos and went back to his seat. Terran junk food was pretty good. Hopefully Nebula would be a good enough shield, if Kraglin noticed and went apeshit. 

He hopped back on his seat and braced the bag between his legs. Without looking at him, Nebula snapped her fingers and held out her hand; Rocket dutifully put a few Cheetos into it and focused on the screen again. The old dude was now sitting in the middle of a giant pile of papers, skimming through them and muttering to himself.  

Old Guy picked up a piece of paper, and began to read it. 

_ “The year 3434 of the Second Age… here follows the account of Isildur, High King of Gondor, and the finding of the Ring of Power.”  _

Quick zoom, flashback, wham bam. Rocket yawned, and shoved a handful of Cheetos into his mouth. 

_ “All those who follow in my bloodline shall be bound to its fate,”  _ said Old Guy’s voiceover.  _ “I will risk no end to the Ring.”  _

“Ain’t that a fuckin’ Asgardian thing to say,” Rocket muttered. Nebula exhaled sharply - probably a laugh, then. He briefly worried that he’d been a bit too loud; the air, though, didn’t crackle the way it did when Thor got pissed off, which was a relief. Rocket wasn’t referring to Thor personally - just the whole Asgardian self-righteous legacy bullshit. 

Then the camera panned down to some script, in an ornate language that vaguely reminded Rocket of Tsyranian with all its loops and swirls.  

_ “The markings upon the band begin to fade…”  _

Rocket sat up straight. 

_          “The writing, which at first was as clear as red flame, has all but disappeared...a secret now that only fire can tell…”  _

Rocket’s face screwed up. “Hmm,” he murmured, and dragged a piece of paper towards him. In sloppy Galactic Basic, he scrawled,  _ Light ring on fire. See letters? _

* * *

 

_          “One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.”   _

Tony uneasily watched the screen - Frodo, and Gandalf, and the Ring on the table between them. Beside him, Bruce munched cheerfully on his popcorn.  

_          “They are one. The Ring and the Dark Lord.”   _

He cast an uneasy glance at Wong’s now-empty chair, and rubbed the top of Stephen’s sling ring. 

* * *

 

_          “...Always remember, Frodo, the ring is trying to get back to its master...it  _ wants _ to be found.”  _

Gandalf, Frodo and Sam stood in the orchards on the borders of the Shire. The wizard’s words made Shuri frown, and she hastily scribbled a few questions down. 

If the Ring in the movie held a piece of Sauron, did that apply to theirs? And did it want to be found in the same way? And besides, the Asgardian homing spell on it seemed a bit… odd. Who was to say that the Ring’s original owner didn’t have a similar thing on it? Who was to say that their Sauron, if he was out there, couldn’t call the Ring to him at any minute? 

Shuri glared down at her paper, at the questions filling it, and shoved it away. Things weren’t lining up.  

* * *

 

Gollum appeared on the screen again, tortured on the rack. James saw Rocket visibly cringe, fold into himself, and he unthinkingly put out a hand to put him at ease. Rocket snapped wildly at his fingers, his snarls drowned out by pounding hoofbeats. James drew away. 

Behind him, someone snored.  

He twisted and saw Bruce tilted back in his armchair with the footrest up, head lolled backwards. Completely out for the count. Beside him, Thor’s eyes slid from the screen to Bruce, and lingered for a long time. The stare stretched far longer than was polite.  

Tony noticed him watching the two, and met James’ eyes. One eyebrow crept up; he tilted his head towards the two, and both eyebrows wiggled suggestively. James made a face at Tony and turned away. That had been awkward as hell; he felt that was a private moment that nobody should have intruded on. 

Tony had better leave Bruce the hell alone. The man needed his rest. 

* * *

 

Guess Clint had a point, after all. The chair was just too damn comfy. 

Bruce fell asleep as Frodo fled the Shire, and awoke to the sound of leather creaking beside him. On the screen, Gandalf rode to Orthanc, and he muttered something derogatory under his breath as the four-pronged tower rose over the trees. Saruman: great character, terrible fucking person.  

Speak of the devil - the wizard himself strode down the stairs of Orthanc, giving Gandalf a prideful stare down his hooked nose. Thor glanced at the screen, then back at Bruce. “I don’t like him,” he said of Saruman, and Bruce had to agree. He reached for a sandwich and carefully bit into it, keeping one eye on the screen. Thanks to Tony, he’d seen this movie so many times that he could practically recite it word-for-word. 

On the screen, Gandalf and Saruman marched into a new room, and Saruman’s clawlike hands snatched a cloth away from - 

“What the hell is that?” Rocket said out loud. 

The Palantir gleamed on the pedestal: a miniature cloud-swirled planet, ominous and black. 

Everyone shushed him, as Gandalf explained:

_          “They are not all accounted for, the lost seeing-stones… we do not know who else may be watching!” _

“That don’t answer my fuckin’ question, what is that thing?” Rocket said, standing on his chair to look around the room. “It’s a freaky, spooky stone that even the fucking wizard doesn’t trust, guys. If that don’t fit the profile of an Infinity Stone I don’t know what does -”

There was an uproar. Nebula and Kraglin looked at each other. At the end of their row, Steve started furiously scribbling notes. Clint brandished his coffee cup and said, “Quiet down, quiet down, guys. Write down your questions, we’ll go over them soon.” Rocket sat down with a huff and returned to his bag of Cheetos.

Bruce already knew about the Palantirs; curious one night, he’d looked them up on Wikipedia and immediately gotten sucked into reading  _ The Silmarillion.  _ But how did they fit into this narrative? Did they exist in the real world, as some kind of magic-based Skype, like they were in the books? 

Or were they the Infinity Stones? 

Bruce frowned and picked up his pen.  

At the end of the row in front of him, Kraglin reached for an empty stretch of table and cursed loudly in an alien language. Thor snorted. 

* * *

 

Goddamn that stupid rodent. Damn him to hell. Kraglin looked over at Rocket, who was grumpily munching on the pilfered bag of Cheetos, and fingered his arrow. He could get him from under the table. Nobody would ever know. 

Nebula glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Kraglin stared back. “Make him give ‘em back,” he said. 

Her look sharpened, into something deadly, and she deliberately crunched on a single Cheeto. Kraglin gritted his teeth and looked back at the screen. Traitor. He crossed his arms over his chest, and watched the Hobbits flee through the woods, hunted by the Nazgul. The music for the scene seemed real fucking dramatic, but it did its job.  

He enjoyed a good dramavid. Wasn’t a cinema snob, but he’d watched enough to know good from bad. They had thousands of ‘em stored on the drives in the ship, from when long journeys through warp space got boring as hell. In his opinion, the best ones weren’t the vids chock full of holograms, flashy space battles, and sex scenes. He had enough of that in his daily life. 

The best ones were the vids where you could see the blood; where you could feel the wind skating over your skin; where you could smell the rain-soaked earth and taste the fog. 

This? Now this was a  _ good _ vid. 

The practical effects held up under scrutiny; it looked real, down to the blood around the nail driven through the horse’s cloven hoof, and its red eyes; down to the screams of the Nazgul, harsh and high as a Skrull battle cry. He knew that orcs weren’t real, and that the Terrans must’ve had to create the fake faces for them by hand - but they almost fooled him. And the flame of Sauron’s eye blazed like a dying star.  

He wondered if Sauron was out there right now. Their Sauron. And who were his Nazgul? 

On Nebula’s other side, Rocket grabbed a massive handful of Cheetos and shoved them into his mouth, scattering crumbs everywhere. Kraglin sighed, scowling, and sullenly propped his elbows on the table. 

Then the Hobbits hit Bree. Laughable security, honestly, just a tall wooden gate with shitty hinges. The bar had the aura of a Ravager’s watering hole, though it was a bit less bloody and a hell of a lot more relaxed. But the camera angles made it look weird as hell. Well, that was just cinematography, wasn’t it? Everything was freaky and dangerous when you were three feet tall and ain’t ever left your home. 

In the corner, the coals lit Strider’s eyes. Kraglin’s lips twitched. Now that was a good disguise. Sure knew the importance of dramatic costuming. He’d pulled that trick before when waiting for contacts, the hiding-but-not-really-hiding thing. Look ominous enough to tell people to fuck off, but just noticeable enough to make people looking for him do a double take. 

The Ring spiraled through the air, twisting and turning in the dark of the bar, and slipped onto Frodo’s hand. Behind him, Steve Rogers groaned with audible disappointment. Kraglin rolled his eyes and knocked back some Terran soda. 

The Nazgul rode again. 

* * *

 

Weathertop’s broken turrets gnawed at the cloudy sky like an array of broken teeth.  

Beside him, Bruce scribbled notes about the Palantirs, occasionally casting glances at the screen. His hands skimmed across the paper; they were oddly elegant, ethereal shadows in the half-light from the screen and Tony’s small conjured light. Thor watched the light bob between the two men, casting a gentle light over their tables. Tony was starting to get the hang of magic, which was rather impressive. Given time, and he could be as great as Strange - or - 

No. 

Thor sighed and grabbed the last sandwich from their plate. 

On the screen, the Nazgul bore down on the Hobbits: faceless cloaked men in a ring, their faces black abysses - holes into another, terrifying reality. Metal rasped on metal as swords were drawn. The music made his skin crawl unpleasantly: all descending ladders of minor notes, harshly whispered words in a language that even the Allspeak could not parse. 

 The Ring whispered. A cloaked figure stepped forth, and drew its sword. In his panic, Frodo slipped on the Ring, and the paleness of the spirit realm washed over him once more. To his right, Steve made a faintly exasperated noise. 

All Thor could do was stare at the paleness of the spirit realm - the roaring wind, the flame-like wavering consistency of every shape. A world on the edge, about to be blown away at any moment. The faces of the Nazgul wavered somewhere between flesh and bone: hollow and skeletal, like victims of famine. They were twisted and withered by the power of the Ring, nothing more than shells filled with the malice of the Dark Lord. 

If this was what the Ring did to lesser men… well, the tales of his cruel, hard, warmongering ancestors made much more sense now. 

* * *

 

Horses, charging through a forest, running, running - 

_ “Give up the Halfling, She-elf!”  _

_                 “If you want him, come and claim him!”  _

Steve was on the edge of his seat, notes forgotten, as Arwen faced off against the might of the Nazgul. Steel scraping on steel ground through the theater; the water flowed faster, roaring along the rocks. Arwen lifted her sword and called out, the Elvish words ringing through the room like a gong. 

Then Frodo choked, slid from the saddle; his irises were pale, pale as death, face bloodless and cold. Arwen gathered him into her arms, tears streaming down her face - 

_ “What grace is given me, let it pass to him…”  _

The screen faded to white. 

_ “Let him be spared.”  _

“Aaaaand, cut,” called Clint, and Shuri hit pause on the movie, cutting inelegantly into the ethereal music. 

Several people groaned, and Rocket threw a pen at Clint, beaning him right in the head. Steve straightened indignantly. God, he’d been so caught up in the story that he’d forgotten to take notes or anything. His sentiments seemed to be shared; Thor seemed a bit miffed that they’d stopped here, and Kraglin was sulking in his chair. 

“Okay,” Clint said to the room, “we’re about an hour and a half in, with two more to go. Take a bathroom break or get snacks if you need to - just be back in, oh, five or six minutes. Go, shoo.” He waved his hand vaguely and took a long drink from his coffee. 

People filtered out. Only Queen Shuri remained in her seat, staring at the screen with her head propped on one hand. Rocket balled up the empty bag of Cheetos – which Steve was a hundred percent sure had been Kraglin’s – and launched it into a trashcan with surprising accuracy. While the others left, Steve descended on the snacks table, his stomach suddenly gnawing at him. He picked up a Wakandan sandwich – some kind of grilled meat, covered with vegetables and a tangy sauce – and put it on a plate, with a handful of sweet potato fries and some miniature pretzels. The rattling of the pretzels seemed loud as gunfire in the empty theater.

“Captain.” 

Steve glanced up, and saw the young queen staring at him, the light from the paused movie glimmering in her eyes. “Your Highness,” he said politely. 

She sat eerily still in her chair. “Did you feel it?” she said softly. 

“Pardon?” 

“When the Ring appeared,” she said. “Just before Wong left. You felt it, right? That… that pressure in the air, the cold rage. The tension.” 

“...Yes,” he said, gripping his plate. “I - it got to me, I’m sorry.” 

Shuri did not acknowledge his last words, merely looking at her hands. “What sparked that?” she said at last, looking up. “Did you see something? Did you  _ feel _ something?” 

The memory of that foreign anger, blending with his own, made him sick. Something righteous, yet twisted. “Just… anger,” he said softly. “Rage, annoyance, despair. And - none of it felt  _ mine,  _ it was…” He swallowed, and looked down at his plate. “I didn’t see anything, though,” he said to the sandwich. “Just… memories.” 

Shuri nodded slowly, and returned her gaze to the screen. Rivendell lay before them, waterfalls frozen, wind petrified between the trees.  

“Did you see anything?” Steve asked hesitantly. 

She took a deep breath, and did not speak for a while. “I saw death,” she whispered at last. “I looked into the past, and I saw death - my people on the battlefield. My guards in the lab.” Shuri’s eyes drifted to him again. “My brother,” she said. “You.” 

He frowned. 

“I saw you and Vision,” she said, and Steve’s stomach rolled. Her eyes still glittered, but now they held the cold, flat glare of a prowling tigress. She lifted her chin and said, “You said to him that you don’t trade lives. Well, then,  _ Captain, _ why did you trade Vision’s life for the lives of my people?” 

Silence fell. Steve realized that they were not entirely alone in the room; Tony, in his wheelchair, was still sitting at the back of the room, munching on a plate of carrots. Watching them.  

“I know,” Shuri said, voice low and dangerous, “that you had no other choice but to bring Vision here, to remove the stone from his head. But that brought Thanos here, it brought his  _ army  _ here -” 

“He was going to come here regardless,” Steve said. “As long as the Stone was on Earth, he would have torn the planet apart searching for it.” 

Shuri raised an eyebrow. “But he didn’t tear the planet apart,” she said. “His soldiers tore apart  _ Wakanda _ . They swarmed Birnin Zana, they killed my guards, they killed my  _ people. _ You,” she said sharply, jabbing a finger at him, “asked our people to lay down their lives in order to save one robot. You  _ sacrificed  _ them for him.” 

“Vision was going to sacrifice himself! I - I couldn’t let him do that, when there was another way!” 

“And we were that other way? A means to an end?” 

“Your people were soldiers,” Steve insisted. “They dedicated their lives to saving their country.” He jabbed himself in the chest. “ _ We  _ are soldiers,  _ Vision  _ was a soldier. He agreed to come here - and your brother let us in!” 

Shuri froze. “Well,” she whispered. The steel in her voice made Steve reel backwards. “Maybe he made the wrong call. You put him in a position he never should have been put in: trading the lives of his people for a shiny rock. Who knows what would have happened if Maximoff had the strength to remove the Stone, when she had the chance?” 

“Wanda couldn’t do that,” Steve said through gritted teeth. “She loved him. He was all she had left in the world, she couldn’t  _ kill  _ him.” 

“And my brother loved his people,” Shuri replied. “And yet, somehow, he was able to sacrifice them to keep the Stone safe. All in vain.” 

In the gloom of the theater, they stared at each other. Steve realized that the young queen hadn’t risen once from her chair, but was still able to put him in his place.  

Shuri swallowed, her eyes flicking away and down. “Anyway,” she said softly, “that was what the Ring made me feel. Anger. Betrayal. Hatred, even.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve croaked. 

“I… I know now,” she said, “that there were greater things at stake than my brother let on. It was hard to believe the world was at stake, until I saw it crumble to ash. Everything,” she said, “is crumbling. Have you heard? The jungles are dying, crops and livestock have vanished. Even certain types of bacteria are gone.” 

Steve shook his head. “No,” he said. “No more. Not for long. We’ll find a way to fix this.” The words sounded hollow even to his own ears. Before him, Shuri grimaced and folded her arms. Steve realized how young she was - not even eighteen yet, and she had to rule what was left of the mightiest country in the world. Too young, to bear such a burden. 

People began to filter back in.  

“You’re going to be fine, you know,” Steve said. 

Shuri’s eyes flicked back up. “I don’t need you to tell me that,” she said, a bit sharply. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Steve said quickly. “I’m just saying. If there’s anyone qualified to take your brother’s place, it’s you. 

Shuri slowly shook her head, and stood up. “With all due respect, Captain,” she said heavily, “that merely speaks to how much you do not know.” With that, she stepped around him and went to the snacks table, her clothes softly rustling. Even now, she wore the Black Panther necklace around her neck; it gleamed dully in the light from the projector.  

“Okay, okay,” Clint called from the front of the theater, gesturing with his travel mug for attention. “We all done? Hydrated, et cetera?” 

“Hail Hydration,” Thor said sarcastically, a bit too loud. Steve’s whole body froze up. He doubted that Thor knew what had happened over the past couple years - the mess with the Winter Soldiers, the Accords, Siberia. That didn’t make the comment sting any less.  

The whole room turned to glare at Thor, and Bruce elbowed him hard in the ribs, hissing something that even Steve’s enhanced ears couldn’t pick up. “Considering present company,” Clint said, gesturing at Steve, “that joke is in  _ very  _ poor taste, big guy.” Thor gave an apologetic grimace and hunkered down in his chair. Steve ducked his head and awkwardly shuffled across the room to get to his seat. 

“Sorry,” Thor said to him, when Steve sat down with his plate. 

“It’s fine,” Steve said, a bit too sharply. He gave Thor a polite nod, hoping that would take some of the bite away.  

Shuri said to Clint, “Should I…?” 

“Yeah, hit it,” Clint said, sitting back down. Perhaps it was another trick of the light, but Steve again saw a golden gleam dancing through his eyes, along his cheekbones. The moment passed when Shuri pressed one of her beads, and Rivendell exploded into living color once more. It reminded him of Wakanda, seen from above - its waterfalls, its greenery, ageless beauty spread beneath the sky. 

Steve leaned forward, sandwich forgotten, and drank it all in. 

* * *

 

The lines between fantasy and reality blurred; the chill of Moria, its dust and death, clung to everything in the theater. It left a cold numbness in Steve’s chest that he could not easily name. The sight of the Fellowship, walking through the crypt Moria had become, was too close to recent events for comfort. 

Bulbous grey eyes loomed over grimy fingers. 

_ “It’s a pity Bilbo didn’t kill him when he had the chance.”  _

_                    “Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand.”  _

Gandalf looked at Frodo, eyes sad and grim beneath his thunderous eyebrows. 

_ “Many that live deserve death, and many that die deserve life...”  _

There was a dull finality to Gandalf’s voice that sunk into Steve’s chest and made his eyes sting. The theater was breathless, watching Gandalf and Frodo speak in the shadows. 

_ “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”  _

Time. What Steve would give to have more time. 

They fought the cave troll. Frodo was saved from beyond the grave by Thorin’s mithril jacket. Legolas’s skills were finally displayed, and Steve finally,  _ finally  _ understood Clint’s old call sign. As they charged over the bridge of Khazad-dum, Clint whipped around and scooted his desk chair into the aisle - his was the only chair that Wong didn’t change before the movie. He propelled himself backward, barely missing Kraglin’s foot in the aisle, and drew up next to Steve. 

“Spoiler alert,” he muttered.  

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Steve said curtly, eyes glued to the screen. 

“Gonna tell you anyway. Gandalf falls a long-ass way down a cliff.” Steve stared at him. Images of a snowy canyon, train tracks and ziplines, flashed through his mind. He took a deep breath and nodded. Clint patted him on the shoulder. “Just thought you might want a warning,” he said, and scooted back to his seat. Now Steve watched the screen with even more trepidation than before. 

Even with Clint’s warning, Frodo’s scream of anguish still made Steve nearly double over in his seat. The absence of any words - just the swelling music, laid over the party collapsing in grief - was so painful that Steve had to look away from the screen. 

Then what was left of the Fellowship entered a forest, carpeted with dying leaves. Great gray trunks supported a canopy of golden leaves. It seemed like a peaceful place, though the threat of orcs following behind made the forest’s beauty too stark.  

_ “ Stay close, young hobbits...they say a Sorceress lives in these woods. An elf-witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell…”  _

A vaguely familiar voice whispered. 

_          “Frodo…”  _

The elves led the Fellowship among the trees, across bridges and over hills; the great elegant treehouses glowed among the branches like lanterns. As the two royal (?) elves descended the stares, Steve heard Bruce inhale and say, “Oh, fuck.” 

An elegant blonde woman appeared on the screen, all wide sweeping cheekbones and long blonde hair. 

Thor inhaled and half-rose from his chair; Bruce literally tackled him back. “Thor, she’s dead,” he hissed, and Steve gave them an alarmed look. So did Tony, his eyes wide. “This is just an actress. Okay? You hear me, they’re not the same person.” 

“Thor, what the hell?” Tony said, though he looked worried. Steve couldn’t remember the last time Tony had looked worried about anything. Thor sighed and sank back into his seat, his fists clenched, and Steve subtly shifted away from the lightning crackling around his knuckles. Nebula twitched in the seat in front of Thor, and whacked the side of her head a couple of times. 

Tony’s eyes flicked away from Thor and met his. 

As Galadriel spoke with the Fellowship on screen, he and Tony stared at each other across the row. Tony’s eyes narrowed briefly, and Steve blinked, glancing away and looking back. Tony gave him an odd half-shrug and looked back at the screen. That was the second time that had happened. Maybe Steve was imagining it, but that last glance seemed longer than before. Maybe he was reading into it too much, but still. It was odd. 

Thor was still and stiff on his chair, watching Boromir and barely blinking.  

_          “Have you ever seen it, Aragorn?”  _

Boromir’s voice was earnest - desperate, even. Longing. __

_          “The White Tower of Ecthelion ,glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze...have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”  _

In the front row, Clint slipped out of his chair and ran, doubled-over, to the coffee dispenser on the snack table. 

In Boromir, Steve could see some of the old Thor - the Thor he knew in years past, speaking of Asgard’s beauty and its people - but he couldn’t tell yet if it was a good thing to compare them. He thought of how Boromir took far too long to return the Ring on Caradhras; he thought of how Thor tried to take the Ring from Wong in the forest. 

At the snack table, Clint was trying to refill his coffee without removing the mug’s lid. Steve sighed and leaned back, watching the Fellowship leave Lothlorien behind. 

They sailed down the river, followed close by Saruman’s orcs, and the Argonath loomed above the water, hands outstretched in warning. The great feet dwarfed the boats; beyond lay the plunging mist of the waterfall. The shots alternating between Boromir and Frodo, and Legolas’s suitably ominous remarks, made Steve’s skin crawl - and when Boromir fell victim to the Ring, Rocket let out an audibly disappointed sigh. 

Though Boromir’s death was expected, it still stung. Even to the end, he still fought to redeem himself. It took three arrows to kill him. Their fellowship was broken, torn to all the corners of the world; Merry and Pippin in the hands of the orcs, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli running after them, and Frodo and Sam running off to destroy the ring.  

Frodo and Sam. Sam and Frodo.  

Something seized Steve’s heart, crushed it like a tin can. 

_          “I’m going to Mordor alone.”   _

_                    “Of course you are. And I’m coming with you!”  _

_ I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, Stevie.  _

Steve pressed a hand do his mouth, hard, and tried to stop it from shaking. 

Sam sank down, down, and Frodo dragged him back up.  

That was more than Steve had ever done for Bucky. God, Bucky would have loved this, to sit here and watch these with him. He loved a good story. He was far more of a bookish type than Steve ever was, though he tried often to hide it - but Steve knew. Oh, he knew. 

_          “Sam - I’m glad you’re with me.” _

The Shire theme played, the screen faded to black, the credits rolled. Shuri dismissed the movie, and the lights came up.  

“Okay, everyone,” Clint says, standing up. He stretched, his whole body cracking and popping, and rolled his neck from side to side. “Oof. Ouch. Okay, hope you took notes and stuff, because starting in, uh... two days we’re going to start tackling the books. Right. We good?” 

He gave the room a questioning thumbs-up, and received a vague murmur of assent in response. “Great. Okay, shoo. You’re dismissed - unless your name is Kraglin, Thor, Shuri or Bruce, would you mind meeting me outside?” 

Everyone filtered out. Steve stayed in his seat, staring at the blank movie screen. The silence of the room pressed on his eardrums, made his chest ache, and all he could do was breathe. Outside, there were soft voices in the hall. 

“You know, I used to think it would be like this forever.” 

Steve’s head turned so fast he felt his neck crack. 

At the other end of the row, in the silent empty room, Tony sat in his wheelchair. The half-shadow of the theater lights blurred his edges, and for the first time in two days Steve truly saw how  _ tired  _ Tony was. “Back then,” he said to the table. “Those days after SHIELD fell, and before Ultron. That was… good. When you all finally moved in.”  

Steve’s breath slowly left him. “Yeah,” he said softly. 

“You know, I had those rooms built right after New York?” 

“I didn’t know that.” 

“And they sat empty for two whole years.” Tony huffed and scratched his nose. “Once you all moved in…” 

“You felt vindicated?” Steve ventured. 

“No,” Tony snapped. “I…” He took a deep breath, his hands clenching into fists on the arms of his chair. “I felt like we were really a team,” he said softly. “A family.” 

Steve swallowed. 

“Thought it would last forever,” the other man said again. “But you know. Dreamed a dream in time gone by, and all that.” His words hung in the air like a quote, heavy and cold, in a way that made Steve’s stomach turn with guilt. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be.” 

“It wasn’t?” 

And Tony turned to him, finally, his face gaunt and empty. “No,” he said softly. “It wasn’t.” 

He held his gaze for a few more moments, before clearing his throat and gathering up his paper notes. The two-fingered ring glimmered dully on his hand. “You know, if you had told me that HYDRA had my parents killed,” he said, aggressively tapping the papers on the table to straighten them, “things would’ve been really, really fucking different. But you know what?” 

“Tony -” 

“I’ve forgiven him.” 

Steve froze. 

Tony lifted his chin defiantly. “I’ve forgiven Barnes,” he said coldly, and somehow that did nothing to soothe the ache in Steve’s chest. “I forgave him a long time ago. I know he was brainwashed, and I know he had no choice; believe it or not, I know a little about people messing with my mind. I just never got a chance to say it to his face, because that would mean dealing with  _ you.  _ You ever wonder how things would have gone, if I had a chance to forgive him before the Accords? If you’d told me? Push the timeline back, think about it.” 

He slipped the papers into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair, and put his hand on the joystick. “I forgave him,” he said sharply, “I just haven’t forgiven you yet. You’re just as much to blame as I am.” 

And with that, he backed away from his desk and drove away. “That’s why this was never meant to be,” he said over his shoulder. His jaw was clenched so hard it was a marvel that he could even speak. “I trusted you, Steve. But you never returned the fucking favor.” 

The door opened, then slid shut, and Tony was gone.  

Steve’s gaze lingered on the closed door for a long, long time. The empty chairs and empty tables around him pressed closer, the vacancy searing his soul. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the double update. Hopefully I'll be able to get a chapter out by next week. My internet situation is getting kinda wonky, so I'll be working around that. Let me know what you think! I'd love to hear anything you have to say. Thanks!


	14. Here Comes The General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kamo leaned in, so close that En could see the woven threads of his blindfold. “You felt that, didn’t you?” he said softly. “That fierce malevolence; the danger, the dark. And you saw something, too, when you touched that glove.”
> 
> En swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Maybe,” he croaked. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”
> 
> “What did you see?”
> 
> En did not respond.
> 
> “En Dwi Gast, _what did you see?”_
> 
> “An eye,” En whispered. “A great eye, formed of flame and shadow. It looked right into my soul, and - and -”
> 
> Before him, Kamo’s pale skin had gone even paler. “Uh. Kamo,” En said. “Do you, uh. Do you know what it might be?”
> 
> Kamo said nothing, merely stared at him with a blank face.

Maybe he should have told Not-Thanos he was illiterate.

En propped his head on his hands and sighed, squinting at the holographic screens around him and resisting the urge to slam his forehead into the desk until he was unconscious. Gods and demons above, this was the worst damn thing he’d ever had to do in his entire life. Like recovering from a hangover, but in reverse. 

And the silence of Not-Thanos’s ship pressed on his ears, every tiny clank or hiss echoing like a gunshot in his small room, making his heart lurch uncomfortably. He’d seen what Not-Thanos had done to Taneleer. He had every right to feel a little jumpy.

En squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes, sadly, the holograms were still there. “I hate this,” he muttered, and finally gave in and put his head on his desk.

Yep. Should’ve said he was illiterate. Then he wouldn’t have to read all this… garbage.

Being a general was not all it was cracked up to be. For one, he actually had to do work. Which was exhausting. He had a list of planets and races that were either already in the thrall of Thanos, used to be, or needed to be, but En had no idea how to narrow them down. The information would be oh, so interesting if he didn’t have to do any actual work with it. 

He hadn’t been off Sakaar for two billion years, and the universe had changed so  _ much _ . There were new stars, new galaxies; someone had chopped off a Celestial’s head - now  _ that  _ was someone En would want to meet - and converted it into a black market headquarters; and Dormammu, that crusty bastard, had finally hauled himself out of his fuckforsaken Dark Dimension to eat Terra, but had gotten scared off and hadn’t been detected since. Good riddance. 

All this information was very well and good, but - but it was so  _ boring.  _ He hated having to analyze these lists of meaningless numbers, tallying them up and doing research on things he didn’t even give a shit about. En leaned back in his chair, nearly dragged his hands down his face, and stopped so he wouldn’t smear his makeup. He’d never run anything more complicated than a blender in his whole life, let alone an entire empire’s  _ army.  _ En had always delegated these things to the Sakaarans. He was never one for numbers...

Wait.

En straightened in his chair, staring straight ahead. “Hmm,” he grunted, lacing his fingers beneath his chin and thinking.

Delegation. Not-Thanos was delegating. If what he had heard was true, the old Thanos usually took the initiative, coordinated the attacks and gave the orders like the general he was. But this Not-Thanos was taking a backseat. He was giving all the jobs to people more qualified than him, so he could sit back and watch. Enjoy the fruits of their labors.

Nobody knew that kind of delegation better than En Dwi Gast.

So maybe he had a chance, after all - because if Not-Thanos was so inept and off-balance in this new universe that he was giving them all the dirty work, he might be so distracted that he wouldn’t see a rebellion under his very nose.

En rubbed his chest, over the spot where the Power Primordial had surged from his body into Not-Thanos’s hand.

_ “War is a game, is it not?” _

“War’s a game, huh?” En muttered. He sniffed haughtily and scooted his chair back, giving the holograms one last glance. Well, survival could be a game, too. This was a game of tag. Right now, Thanos was It and En was the one running like hell. But there wasn’t any  _ fun  _ in just running away. Why else were obstacle courses so popular? People loved a challenge -  _ En  _ loved a challenge. 

But there was still so much that En didn’t know. He was just as off-balance as Not-Thanos. All he needed was more information - something beyond the bland numbers and cold data. There was only one person who could help him there. 

Well - two. He stood and left for what passed for the  _ Sanctuary II’s _ library. Neither of them were his favorites, but he would take what he could get.

On his way out, En rubbed his chest again, and tried not to think of how the shadows grew deeper and darker as he left his room. A foul smell drifted through every part of the ship, reeking of death and decay; the air was hollow and musty in his lungs. His footsteps echoed. En would kill to get some real lights in here - bright lights, maybe some lava lamps and a disco ball - but even the thought of seeing the neon lights blinking on the  _ Sanctuary II’s  _ rusty interior made his stomach turn. Like sprinkling glitter on a rotting corpse. Pointless.

The hallway leading to Kamo’s and Seginn’s shared workspace was dark, but he could hear voices echoing. “There is simply  _ no way,”  _ Kamo was roaring, “that we can observe that!” En cringed just hearing his voice. Nails on chalkboard. Hoo boy, he was in for a rough time.

Seginn said, quiet and snippy, “You cannot observe that. I, however, can.” 

“Perhaps you can, but it’s pointless!”

En took a deep breath, bid farewell to his ears (because if Seginn and Kamo were getting in a fight his ears would probably start to bleed), and pushed open the door.

In the library, Kamo was hunched over a large table, jabbing his finger at an array of holograms hovering over a desk. Seginn stood there with his hands folded complacently, studying the maps of the galaxies without even looking at Kamo. “To you, perhaps it is,” he said, the holographic stars flickering over his face.

Kamo scowled and waved a hand, dismissing the holograms. Seginn gave him a sharp look and called them back up. They glared at each other for a few moments, during which En wanted nothing more than to smash his head into the table. “Yes,” Kamo said, through gritted teeth. His eyes were shrouded by his completely-aesthetic-and-unnecessary blindfold, but En had no doubt that they were burning with fury. “It is.”

“Hm. Unfortunate.” Seginn returned to his holograms and zoomed in on a couple of stars. “Ah, En - how kind of you to join us.”

En jumped, startled at being addressed directly. “Yeah, uh. Hi,” he said, wiggling his fingers in greeting. “Just thought I’d pop in -”

“What do you want?” Seginn said frostily.

Well, wasn’t that just rude. En gave him a casual shrug and said, “Well, y’know, just looking for a thing. Stuff. Not important - what are you two up to?”

“Trying to convince him that he’s wrong,” the other two said simultaneously.

Ignoring Seginn’s venomous glare, Kamo gripped his staff tighter and said, “Seginn here wishes to scan the stars for traces of the stones.  _ I  _ have a more comprehensive plan -”

“That’s great,” En said. “I, uh, I don’t really care, Kamo, full offense meant - I actually have a question -”

“My plan,” Kamo said over him, and En resisted the urge to tear his own eyeballs out, “actually has scientific merit.” Seginn muttered something derogatory under his breath and turned away, deliberately striding to the other side of the hologram table. En glared at his back. When Kamo started talking again, he blinked and summoned a tensely polite smile. Coward.

“According to my research,” Kamo said, drumming his fingers in an extremely annoying rhythm on his staff, “the Stones have a tendency to affect their environment around them. Take Morag, for example - its residents, before they were wiped out, tried to use the Power Stone to hold their shattered planet together. After their civilization was destroyed, the Power Stone remained, the Orb channeling its power into the earth and keeping it melded. The very fabric of reality is warped around Morag. The Stones -”

En suppressed a yawn.

“I saw that.”

“No you didn’t. Please, continue,” En said hastily.

Kamo’s nose wrinkled. “Hmph. Anyway,” he sniffed, “the Stones may have gone to places that they frequented for long periods of time, because space itself is altered in the regions they occupy. It’s been documented.”

“Has it, really,” Seginn said in a monotone. 

“It has, if you were  _ listening _ to me while I told you earlier,” Kamo snapped. “1.8 billion years after the birth of the universe, a race found the Reality Stone on a distant planet. They overused it; its container, which was fundamentally unstable, exploded in a matter very similar to the Infinity Gauntlet, and the Stone returned to the planet it had come from.”

“Uh huh,” En said blandly.

“It is possible that the Stones may have returned to places they have been used frequently.”

“Uh huh.”

“Perhaps a conscious choice, or not -”

“Yep.”

“- it’s also documented that some of the Stones have something resembling an artificial intelligence -”

“Yeah.”

“- a modicum of choice may have been involved -”

Okay, that was it. En was fully aware that he had the attention span of a half-dead goldfish, and this was the least interesting thing he had ever heard come out of Kamo’s mouth. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna stop you right there,” he said loudly; Kamo froze, every line of his face radiating furious disapproval. “Fascinating. Really, really fascinating. But that’s not why I’m here - I, I, I need answers, okay. I need to know what I’m supposed to  _ do  _ in this mess -”

“Somehow, you’re the commander of Thanos’s armies,” Kamo muttered. “That’s a pretty obvious indicator of what you should do.”

“Actually, no it’s not -”

“En.”

Seginn swiveled and gave him a baleful, vaguely disappointed look. “You hardly have to do any work,” he said. “Frankly, I’m rather jealous of you. Taneleer, Maht and Tryco are doing everything difficult - we just give them orders. You don’t have to do anything hard.”

“Uhhhh, yes, I do,” En said slowly. “I have to raise a universe-conquering army from a bunch of scraps, that sounds pretty damn hard to me -”

Seginn shrugged and idly laced his fingers together. “You’ll figure it out,” he said, managing to sound both reassuring and snide at the same time. Pompous ass. En scowled at him and very, very deliberately turned his back on him. Oh, he’d always hated that smug bastard with a fiery passion. Seginn was almost older than the stars themselves; back in his day, they must not have known what humor was. Even the Nameless One had a sense of humor, but Seginn Gallio? A stick up his ass the size of the Andromeda Galaxy. Asshole.

At least Kamo had the decency to snark back at him. “So,” En said to him, giving him a smile so fake it hurt his cheeks. “Theories. Have at thee. Hit me up.”

“Afraid not, En,” Kamo said gruffly.

“Aw, come on -”

“No, no, En, this isn’t any of your business.” Kamo took a deep breath and exhaled, his blindfolded gaze darting towards Seginn. “The stones are our duty to find, not yours,” he said quietly. “Your job is much more important. You have to keep the whole damn universe from flying apart. Find allies, identify enemies, convert who you can’t and kill who you can’t.”

His face twisted in a strange way, different from his usual sourness. En narrowed his eyes. “The galaxy has a complex political structure. If we must... convert it to Thanos’s cause, then you will have to take advantage of it.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

Kamo blinked. “Pardon?”

“What,” En said, “is Thanos’s cause?”

Kamo tilted his head slightly. Behind that not-blindfold, he was no-doubt looking skeptically down his nose, but En didn’t care. “Here’s the thing, Kams. Thanos hasn’t told me anything about what I’m supposed to do, alright? Alright? You know what he’s been doing instead?”

“Enlighten me,” Kamo muttered.

“He’s locked himself in that creepy throne room in the middle of the ship,” he said. “He’s looking at old databases, video recordings, staring at star maps as if he’s never seen them before. It’s as if...”

En paused; the words were lined up on his tongue, waiting to be spoken, but he almost couldn’t bring himself to speak. They felt… wrong. Impossible.

“What?”

En swallowed. “It’s as if he’s seeing the world for the first time,” he said softly. “Through new eyes.” He lifted his gaze and nearly met Kamo’s, but failed. The blindfold and all. “Using the gauntlet must have changed him - but how much?” He expected his cousin to snap off a snarky reply - maybe about the Titan’s charred body, or his insane policies, or something.

But Kamo said nothing; his mouth merely twisted into a sour, thoughtful line, and he glanced across the room. Seginn was puttering around the holographic table, scribbling down figures and muttering to himself.

“That’s right,” Kamo said quietly. 

His blindfolded gaze slid back to him, the calculating stare of a hunting falcon, and En’s skin crawled. “You  _ have  _ been out of the loop for an unfortunate amount of time, have you.”

It was a statement, not a question. En answered it anyway. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I had it good on Sakaar. A nice getaway, you know?”

“A two-billion-year-long getaway,” Kamo said frostily. “You’ve missed a lot, cousin. Entire star systems have been wiped out since you left for Sakaar. Empires have fallen, risen and fallen yet again. Wars have been fought that reshaped the stars themselves. New races have risen to prominence and begun to make their mark on the cosmos. Even Terra is taking its place among the stars.”

En scoffed. “Terra? The Celestials’ old pet project?”

“Indeed.”

“Last I heard, it was overrun with a bunch of scrawny lizards - oh. Oh,  _ no. _ Don’t tell me they have sentient lizards, that’s just weird -”

“En.” 

“What?”

“Will you take this  _ seriously  _ for five seconds?” Kamo snapped, his lips thin with anger. En sighed. “The Terrans had two of the Infinity Stones. And  _ used them.” _

What. “No, they didn’t,” En said. 

“Yes, they did.”

“No, they  _ didn’t  _ \- that’s not possible,” En insisted. “That’s, that’s,  _ no. _ ”

“Yes,” said Kamo. “They had containers that let them use their powers. Thanos went to their planet to get the Stones -”

“Why?”

Kamo took a deep breath and slowly reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Just - shut up,” he hissed. “For five. Bloody. Seconds. Are you at least capable of that much, you ridiculous drunk?”

“Hey, don’t look at me, I’m just curious,” En said defensively. 

“Then be curious a little bit quieter, I’m trying to explain why you should be  _ afraid for your life,”  _ Kamo said, jabbing En in the chest with one slender finger. Something cold sank into the pit of his stomach; the aged lines of Kamo’s face were twisted with fear. 

“At first, Thanos sought to wipe out half of all life in the universe,” Kamo whispered. “For the sake of balance. He would land on planets, slaughter half its people, and leave to do the same to another. So that resources would be shared more evenly.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” En scoffed.

Kamo whacked him in the chest and glanced around. “Not so loud,” he said sharply. His gaze returned to En. “But you’re right,” he whispered. “It was foolishness. It  _ is  _ foolishness. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that Thanos is supposed to  _ stop.” _

“What do you mean?”

“He achieved his purpose,” Kamo said, his mouth twisting. “He once said to his children, on the planet Zen-Whoberi, that when he was done he would look out over the grateful universe, when his work was done, and take a well-deserved rest.” En didn’t bother asking how he knew that; Kamo knew everything. That was just the way it was.

Kamo took one hand off his staff and gestured at the room around them - at the shadows clinging to the walls, the tang of mold and blood in the air. In the gloom of the makeshift library, his face was hollow as a skull. “This is not rest,” he said, his hand shaking. “This is  _ madness. _ He does not seek to change the universe - he seeks to destroy it. He seeks to dominate all life.”

“That’s new?”

“As new as the fire burning in his eyes and along his limbs, and the darkness in his soul.”

Kamo leaned in, so close that En could see the woven threads of his blindfold. “You felt that, didn’t you?” he said softly. “That fierce malevolence; the danger, the dark. And you saw something, too, when you touched that glove.”

En swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Maybe,” he croaked. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

“What did you see?”

En did not respond.

“En Dwi Gast,  _ what did you see?” _

“An eye,” En whispered. “A great eye, formed of flame and shadow. It looked right into my soul, and - and -”

Before him, Kamo’s pale skin had gone even paler. “Uh. Kamo,” En said. “Do you, uh. Do you know what it might be?”

Kamo said nothing, merely stared at him with a blank face. “I have theories,” he said. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “None of them good. This may have roots in the War of the Ring three millennia ago - or the legends of the Celestial War, or - or even further back, beyond the beginning of our universe.” His hand rubbed circles into his chest, a faint echo of pain on his face. “It may be,” he whispered. “The Ring… If the Asgardians…”

“Kamo?”

“That is a war I turned my back on for a reason,” the other Elder muttered. “Asgard’s treachery - bold, for such a young race… This is not the time or place to speak of this, but know this much, cousin - we are in the thrall of something much more powerful than us. Thanos is no mere Titan now.”

“And where does that leave us?”

Kamo took a deep breath, and exhaled. “I don’t know,” he forced out, and the words clearly pained him to say. 

They looked at each other in the silence for a while longer. In the background, Seginn puttered around and adjusted the holographic maps, scribbling down figures. For the first time, En felt as though he’d seriously underestimated things; if Thanos, or whatever was living in his nasty purple body, was as bad as Kamo let on, what kind of a fucking chance did he stand? This was ridiculous. This was - this was -

“En.”

Kamo’s voice was harsh, ponderous. “If anything,” he said quietly, “it leaves us exactly where we are now. In his thrall. At his will. We cannot hope for freedom from this.”

En’s chest felt crushed. “Are you serious?” he breathed. “Are you - are you fucking  _ serious?” _

“Yes,” Kamo said stonily. “We have no choice but to follow his will. Use our skills to do what we can.”

En’s mouth fell open, and he was about to say some  _ very  _ rude things - but there was a strange tilt to Kamo’s head, a meaningful set to his eyebrows. En’s eyes narrowed. “Right,” he said slowly, watching Kamo. “Use our skills.”

Kamo nodded slowly, and turned back to his holographic desk. “If my theory is correct,” he said, his voice raised slightly, “then some of the Stones may have returned to Terra. Asgard and Xandar have been destroyed; their barricade around Terra’s star system has fallen. It would behoove you to send troops there to recover any Stones that are there.”

Kamo turned away from his desk and gave En a meaningful look, both eyebrows raised. En nodded and slunk away.

Well. That was an interesting development. Neither of them were here willingly; and it looked like neither of them were happy to be here, either. A silent rebellion, then. It would be good to have Kamo in his corner. Kamo, of all the Elders, understood that this was not a question of right or wrong; it was not rebelling against evil to fight for good. Hell, none of the Elders had done a good thing in their entire life, not even the Nameless One. Her definition of justice was… twisted. Too straightforward. No leeway.

It was just practicality. Survival. Either they followed Thanos to their deaths, as he tore the universe down to its foundations - or they stopped him before this truly began, and got to live another billion years.  _ Free. _

En grimaced. Damn. He was starting to sound like a revolutionary - “better to live on your feet than to die on your knees,” blah fucking blah. But still. He liked to believe that he had at least a modicum of self-respect in him, that hadn’t been worn away by the orgies and drinking and life on Sakaar. A life under the thumb of a would-be tyrant was no way to live, not while there were better things he could be doing. Obediently following a being two million times younger than him was just insulting.

The doors to his quarters - sparse and bare, by his standards, but still more lavish than what the other Elders had - hissed open. En stepped through and let it slam shut behind him. He made for his desk, with the lists and lists of allies and enemies, and stared at them for a while. “Hmm,” he said aloud. “Hmm. This could work.”

This could work. It had to work. And if this brief summary of the galaxy’s major players these days was accurate, half the work was already done for him.

En smiled to himself, a sharp smile full of wicked, gleaming teeth, and pulled up the holograms again. He had a couple of calls to make.

* * *

The television cast a blue, flickering pallor over the office; its light glimmered on shards of broken glass, and shone dully on cloudy spills of whiskey. The wheels of the upside-down desk chair spun feebly, like spinning tops losing momentum.

The haggard newscaster’s voice was tinny and thin.  _ “Ellis’s appointment of Rhodes to the position of Secretary of State comes as a surprise to many,” _ she was saying,  _ “who believed that the former Air Force colonel was going to have his rank stripped. This is a surprising reversal for the Ellis administration -” _

Glass crunched underfoot.

_ “- who gave every indication that Ross was the best choice for the administration while the Accords were in their earliest stages -” _

A hand closed around a half-empty whiskey glass.

_ “- Rhodes has not been seen since the Dusting, but it is safe to say that he is still alive and with us. As for Ross, he has disappeared from the public eye since the announcement of Rhodes’s appointment -” _

The glass shattered against the wall. 

Chest heaving, he watched the slow drip of watered-down whiskey trickling down the wood paneling. His fingers itched for more destruction, more broken things beneath his fingers - to rip, and tear, to  _ kill - _

The television screen fuzzed briefly with static. The voice of the newscaster warped, became reedy and masculine; it was no longer tinny, now unctuous and dripping with a drunken self-importance.  _ “Hello? Is this - is this thing on? Hello?” _

That smarmy voice was… unfamiliar. Though something about it still set his teeth on edge. “Who the hell are you?” he said gruffly.

_ “Oh, hi,”  _ the voice said, through the newscaster’s mouth.  _ “Hello there. How’s it, uh, how’s it goin’? Everything alright on Terra?” _

“No,” he snarled.

_ “Whoa, there, there’s no need for that,”  _  the voice said.  _ “Good grief, mister, I’m just trying to -” _

He reached for his drawer, and the pistol in it. “I’m going to ask you this one time,” he said, glaring into the newscaster’s dispassionate eyes. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

The newscaster was silent for a moment.  _ “You can call me… Andre,”  _ the voice said, through the newscaster’s mouth. The voice did  _ not  _ fit her face at all. It was disconcerting.  _ “Andre Grass. Nice to meet you.” _

Something about that name was eerily familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. That familiarity - that bare minimum of resemblance to something he may have known - set his teeth on edge. “That has to be the fakest name I’ve ever heard, you dumb son of a bitch,” he said, opening the drawer.

_ “Does that really matter?” _

“It does, because - how the hell did you get through? How do you even know about this mode of communication?”

_ “Oh, your boss gave me a mainline right into it,”  _ Andre said cheerfully.  _ “Nifty little piece of tech you folks have there. Not bulletproof, though.” _

His hand froze above the gun.

_ “Tut, tut, naughty, naughty.”  _ The voice turned serious, and the sudden shift made him vaguely nauseous.  _ “I am… shall we say, representing a greater interest. A higher power.” _

“Color me unimpressed.”

_ “Color  _ him  _ purple.”  _ He felt the blood rush out of his face. _ “That change your mind at all?” _

For fuck’s sake, of course it did. That changed fucking  _ everything.  _ “Oh,” he said, sliding the drawer shut. He waved a finger at the screen, even if he was sure that Andre couldn’t see him. “Oh, no, no, no, mister, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then -”

_ “It’s not what you think.” _

“Then what -”

_ “This is…  under the radar.”  _ Andre sounded a bit smug, now.  _ “Your boss told me you’ve got a bit of a home field advantage, for lack of a better term. Well, you’ve still got a bit of clout, I hope, because I have orders for you. You, uh… you know anything about the Infinity Stones?” _

“A fair bit,” he said grumpily.

_ “Good. I need you to find them.” _

He sniffed haughtily and sat at the edge of his desk, glaring at the newscaster on the screen. “Now, listen,” he said, ignoring how the smarminess of Andre’s voice appeared to be seeping into the newscaster’s face, “hasn’t your big purple testicle of a boss already collected them all? Hasn’t he done his job?”

_ “...Yeah, well, there’s been a slight complication. He’s looking at bigger and better things, he says.” _

“Uh huh.”

_ “Universe-killing things.” _

“...I see.”

_ “And that’s not good.” _

“Then why the hell are you working for him?”

The newscaster sniffed.  _ “It’s complicated, and not worth my time,” _ Andre’s voice said.  _ “Anyway - you’re in charge of things, I assume?” _

He gritted his teeth. “Sure,” he said. Not as much as he would like to be, but he still had some power. He still had something to contribute, he was still  _ worth  _ something -

_ “Yeah, good. Excellent. So get some of your people together, and see if you can hunt down any traces of the Stones. Bring ‘em to me when you’re done with them. And hey, when Thanos is done with them, you folks can keep them for yourselves.” _

The newscaster smiled - a wide, shark-toothed smile, cold and dispassionate and so utterly wrong on her face that it made him shudder.  _ “We’re on a deadline,”  _ Andre’s voice said.  _ “I’ll give you a month. I’m fairly confident that you will be able to hunt them down, if you have the right resources.” _

“A month,” he repeated, softly. Stunned. A month. Was he insane? “Are you  _ serious?  _ What, you’re just going to drop this on me without a briefing or anything?”

The smile faded a bit.  _ “Hey, I’m just as in the dark as you are,”  _ Andre said defensively.

“Oh, how fucking reassuring -”

_ “Watch your tone, I can vaporize this planet with a snap of my fingers,” _ he snapped.  _ “Finger’s on the button, mister.”  _

He narrowed his eyes and leaned back.

Andre giggled suddenly, a high-pitched noise that was like a railroad spike driving into his spine, and said,  _ “Well, y’know, I - I’ve heard a couple things from the horse’s mouth. Apparently Terrans have some kind of, uh… a, uh, wizard defense squad. Or something. They put up a bit of a fight when Thanos’s old guard came to bother you guys.” _

“Yeah, we know about them,” he muttered. “ ‘Masters of the Mystic Arts.’ We haven’t been able to get anything done here because they’re so… meddlesome. I know exactly who they are.”

_ “Oh, good. So, guess what! They had the Time Stone this whole time.” _

Something popped in his jaw. 

_ “So if there’s any place you should go sniffing, it’s around their little outposts. Hell, if what I’ve heard is right, you’ve got one just up from the coast from you, mister. Have at thee.” _

The slasher smile widened on the newscaster’s face.  _ “You can do it,” _ Andre said.  _ “I believe in you. Just - I’m on a deadline, buddy, and even  _ I  _ don’t know when it’ll come due. Take every day like it’s your last. Go, go, chop-chop. And, uh, you know how to reach me. I use the same setup as your boss. Alrighty, have fun!” _

There was a faint whine of static, and the newscaster’s face was suddenly normal again. His eyes lingered on her for nearly a minute longer, almost expecting to see that same shark-toothed grin, those intelligent beady eyes - like a mask pressing through cloth, vague imprints of something sinister projected between worlds. And God, that fucking  _ voice. _ This Andre - obviously not his real name, but what the hell - was like an over-caffeinated bipolar twelve-year-old: couldn’t make up his damn mind whether to be giggly or murderous or both… Good grief. How that douchebag was Thanos’s new second in command, he would never know.

He took a deep breath and pressed a button on the phone on his desk. “Roll call,” he said into it, his voice terse and heavy in his throat. “Names and numbers, send them in. We’ve got a new mission, and I need everybody I can spare in the States on it.” A light blinked once, and he let go of the button. 

The Skrull wearing Thaddeus Ross’s face took a deep breath and sat on the edge of his desk, hands in his pockets, watching the headlines scroll across the screen once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I LIVE!!!!!** Holy fucking hell, sorry for the long wait and the short ass chapter. College is a pain in the fucking ass, y'all. I've had this outlined for the longest time, and I haven't had any time to actually type it out. But hey, yay worldbuilding! Yay plot! The Skrulls are getting involved - like, really involved - and I have an interesting plan for them and one of their _very_ unwilling allies down the line. Hopefully, I can get this moving along. 
> 
> I have a couple of fancasts for the Elders, by the way. Seginn - Astronomer, asshole, et cetera - is Christopher Lee. (That does not make him Saruman. Just saying. There's still a Saruman role to be filled.) Kamo is Peter Capaldi, and the Judicator, who we haven't really seen much of for a while, is Gwendoline Christie.
> 
> I will, however, be changing my update schedule from "weekly" to "whenever the fuck I have time," which will probably be once every two months. If any of you get impatient, feel free to heckle me at [my tumblr](http://www.thor.20.tumblr.com), or if you want to see what else I've been working on.
> 
> So! Tell me what you think. What would you want to see happen in the next chapter - more plot, more analysis of the ring, more character interaction, more angst and shit? Hit me up with suggestions; I'd love to hear from you, and know that I'm not just yeeting this out into the abyss for no reason. Leave a comment on the way out. Adios, friends.


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